The raging water passing under a railroad bridge was the one thing every kid with balls jumped into. There was a safety rope made with a length of ship rope someone found before I was even born. Its sole purpose wasn't to swing on the rope but to grab onto it and get you back on the bridge safely. Missing the rope could send you swimming for your life. You see, just a couple of miles downriver was Niagara Falls, and it was certain death. At any given time on a summer day, kids would gather there, a place commonly known as The Shoots. There would be shouts of encouragement to jump, and many kids backed away when they looked down at the swirling water, dark and very spooky. It wasn't unusual to see kids run off the bridge in terror.
It was a rite of passage that, when completed, gave you your fifteen minutes of fame and weeks of shoulder slapping from those ready to try their luck.
On July fourth, 1965, I stood at the edge of the bridge. Kids were shouting for me to jump, but all I could hear was the raging water below me and the unsettling feeling that I was going over the falls and not in a barrel. I was frozen to the bridge as several of my cousins and friends cheered me on, saying it was a piece of cake. So, with a last prayer, I jumped. I saw the rope just inches away, and with a lunge, I had a hold of it and got back on the bridge without being sent over the falls. I knew at that exact moment why nobody ever tried it twice.
Many years have passed, and on every visit home, I stop at the Shoots, where I see kids standing on the edge of the bridge, and I hope somebody has found another piece of rope.
Mike 2025
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