I’m at the 1966 state-wide Boys Club Sports and Art Competition. I’m working on an art project, when two boys approach me. “Hey, it’s Mr. Magoo!” one says.
“Got any money, Magoo?” the other bully asks.
One of them snatches my wallet from my back pocket. He dangles it in front of my eyes. “Can you see this, Magoo?”
I grab for my wallet but he tosses it over my head to his buddy. I hear other kids laughing and sense them forming a circle as I’m enraged by this cruel game of keep-away. When I think it can’t get any worse for me, it does… one of the punks uses the wallet to repeatedly slap my face. “What’s wrong, Magoo? Can’t you see it?”
The humiliation is crushing. I’m staggering back and forth in my visual haze with everyone’s laughter ringing in my ears. The two bullies continue to taunt me, slapping me, and throwing my wallet back and forth over my head. I run after them until my asthma makes me cough and choke. As soon as they see me struggling to breathe, they circle back, push me to the asphalt, and I rip my pants as I skin my knees and my palms to break my fall. One kicks me in the ribs and makes me weep harder. They toss my empty wallet at me and snickering say, “Thanks for the money, blind boy!”