You’re a Little-Leaguer. You’re riding in the bed of Mister Jimmy’s pickup with 13 of your closest teammates. Mister Jimmy is your coach. He’s driving.

Mister Larry is riding shotgun. He’s your assistant coach, the one who tells inappropriate jokes in the dugout. He’s been married thrice. He’s working on his fourth. He’s good people.

Both coach’s windows are rolled down. Their arms are hanging out the open windows. Cigarettes dangling between their fingers.

It’s a nice evening. Warm. The sun is setting. You’re on your way to Dairy Queen.

Mister Jimmy’s truck pulls up to a stoplight. A sheriff’s car pulls behind you. The county cruiser is a Crown Vic. Early ‘80s model. Chrome bumpers.

The cop waves at all 14 of you. You all wave back. A few beg the officer to sound his siren (sy-REEN). The officer smiles. He obliges by flipping on the lightbar. The siren yelps once. Your teammates are in heaven.

The light turns green. Mister Jimmy hits the gas, and the momentum nearly propels all 14 of you out of the truck bed. Fine times.

You’re riding down the highway now. Your teammates consist of 13 boys and Lisa, Zachary’s little sister. She hits better than anyone on the team. Fields better. And keeps the dugout clean. Mister Larry says Lisa is the team’s conscience.

You’re all waving at passing motorists in traffic now. A Cadillac Eldorado. A Mercury. A few Ford F-100s.

One of your teammates dares you to moon the Lincoln Town Car behind Mister Jimmy’s truck. Everyone on your team gets in on the action. They all chip in 50 cents if you’ll moon the lady in the Lincoln. So you do it.

You drop your drawers. Your teammates howl. Lisa covers her eyes.

Mister Jimmy notices you back there, with your little pants pulled down, displaying your perpetual whiteness to an innocent motorist.

Mister Jimmy smacks the side of his truck. “Pull your [cussword] pants up!” he shouts. But you can tell he’s laughing.

You keep driving.

Mister Jimmy drives a Ford pickup. It was once white, but now it’s the color of the universe. Beige, with a mildew patina. He’s a drywaller, so the truck bed is littered with bits of Sheetrock and globs of dried drywall mud. Merle Haggard is playing in the cab.

The Ford pulls up to Dairy Queen. You all dismount. The cashier asks what you all want. You all order the same thing. Ice cream cones. Eight chocolate, and 6 vanilla.

Mister Larry buys cones for Andrew and his little brother Carl because their dad is a janitor and works double shifts.

You all go outside to eat. You eat in the parking lot because you are gross little boys. You’re covered in red dirt. Your jeans are ragged. And Mister Larry says you all—every last one of you—smell like a filthy billy goat’s butt. Except for Lisa, of course.

When you’re finished with your cones, the sun is already down. It’s time to go home and resume your daily lives. You all have science tests. Spelling tests. Math tests. And all sorts of other schoolwork that will have no bearing on your adult lives.

But that summer, like every summer spent within that old Ford, will have more influence on your adulthood than memorizing the Gettysburg Address, or the Preamble to the United States Constitution ever could.

And this, in short, is why on March 19, 2024, although you are older, you will be going to Dairy Queen for Free Ice Cream Cone Day.