How I Set My Crotch on Fire, and a Future Chicago Firefighter and His Brother Put It Out

It was a typical fall weekday in 1977 on the mean streets of South Wilmette, IL. School Bus #7 had just dropped off a group of kids from Central Elementary School at 4th and Gregory, including me. I wore my new corduroy pants, which my parents had purchased the day before at Turn Style, the Walmart of that era. I mention these marshmallow-colored pants because they are essential to what would soon unfold.

Also exiting the bus were Rory and Jason, paternal twins and my two best friends, then and now. Rory became a firefighter in Chicago, home to the most respected fire departments in the world. Jason became a respected leader for several suburban Chicago Park Districts. I became a copywriter, crafting ad campaigns for products like toilet paper, tampons, and cheese.

We passed my house and made a beeline for theirs across the street. Their mom would be serving her legendary toaster oven pizza bread—a must-have after-school snack that I truly believed should be patented.

Between bites of stuffing our pre-teen faces, we chatted about heading to explore the alley on my side of the street. There was always something to do or trouble to find in that pothole-riddled place, and that day was no different.

As we approached the entrance to the H-shaped alley, our first and sadly final stop was the Tomoroy house, where it was clear that no one was home. They had a tall chain-link fence, but it was easily accessible. Naturally, we invited ourselves into their backyard and found a book of matches, rubber cement, and a citronella candle in a bucket.

I’m unsure which of us decided what to do with our discovery. All I remember is that we gathered around the bucket, lit the wick, and then I poured rubber cement over the flame to see what would happen. Fortunately, Jason turned on the garden hose and pulled it over by the bucket, just in case.

What could possibly go wrong?

The result was a burst of fire that immediately set my crotch on fire. Our science experiment quickly ignited into a full-blown ball blaze. My balls.

Both boys reached for the hose and quickly extinguished the fire. Silence filled the air as we sat there, stunned, as my new corduroys smoldered like a toasted marshmallow around the crotch.

We didn’t say much but decided to call it a day and go our separate ways. I walked slowly through the alley to my house, trying to figure out how to get past my parents without them noticing what had happened to my new pants. That’s when I crept into the crawl space underneath our house to reach the basement. As soon as I arrived, I stuffed those charred pants deep into the rag bag. I never heard a peep about it until 25 years later.

I was over for dinner at my parents’ house when I asked my mom if she had ever found those pants in the rag bag. She said she had considered punishing me for ruining a new pair of pants. However, after examining the damage, she told me that a charred crotch was probably punishment enough.

Moms really do know best.