The Graduation of Eddie Calibresi

From p. 1:

Passing from sixth grade to seventh grade, from elementary school to junior high school, was a monumental event of the highest order for Eddie Calibresi and me. Gone were our wanton days of team-frogging fourth grade boys like Brady O’Neil, and stealing kisses in the darkened recesses of a coat closet from the exotic looking Debbie Simmons and her best friend, Bonnie Rankin. It meant fewer high-speed chases on our bikes or skateboards, flying over the bridge at Bogg’s Creek or making kamikaze passes at old lady Young as she swept her sidewalk in the early morning light.

From p. 3:

Tackle; my god. I never realized there were so many different hooks and lures and rods and spinners and reels and sizes of test line available solely for the sport of reeling in fish. Eddie’s eyes sparkled like a Christmas tree; I was getting a headache just trying to take it all in, and I was beginning to understand why my dad spent some of his time off in places like this, rather than neighborhood bars. It was a real man’s paradise, a refuge for hen-pecked husbands and a place where guys could talk unabashedly, where the possibilities for awe-struck boys like us were endless.