Ira Glass

Now, any kind of logic would have dictated that's not the way to get the girl you like, right?

This is not how she felt about it at the time.

Because I felt the harder I tackled her, the more popular I'd be.

I took it down like it was prison football.

The game came to an immediate end, everyone circling Karen's writhing body, the football near her lay totally still.

She was holding her leg, looking up at me, saying, You tabalard!

You broke my leg!

Karen doesn't remember any of this.

She doesn't remember how she then jumped up, got four or five of her girlfriends in a huddle, and miraculously choreographed an impromptu kicking chorus line of Fatso Man to the tune of the Village People's Macho Man.

Fatso, Fatso Man, I would not like to be a Fatso Man.

Fatso, fatso, man.

I would not like to be a fatso.

And at that point, they all threw their hands up in the air in unison.

I remember it so perfectly, but then, after all, it was my crush.

She had no recollection of the time the school photographer called her Daisy Duke and then turned around and called me Boss Hogg.

Or the fitness day that I beat her in a chariots of fire style race.

She didn't even remember the biggest story of them all.

Our sixth grade graduation dance.

Now, the last dance was Stare into Heaven.

Now, I went to the dance that I danced with you.