I Love It When They Run

Taking a break from the über-addicting Super Mario Galaxy to walk the dog last night, I zeroed in on two kids; one of which was tagging the wall on the north side of Santa Ana Boulevard. As they crossed Santiago Street and headed towards our complex, I knew right then that trouble was headed our way. I quickly brought the dog inside, grabbed my “usual necessities” and charged out the door.

One of the kiddies that was wearing a USC hooded sweatshirt was supposed to be the lookout while his friend spray-painted the rollup door on a unit across the street. That kid in the sweatshirt had one job and one job alone—and he failed miserably being that I was able to run-up and pepper spray the tagger right between the eyes.

With a face full of searing pain, he amazingly “Froggered” his way across the street through traffic and headed west down Santa Ana Boulevard. In “police speak”, I engaged the suspect in pursuit.

Over the course of my life, I’ve come to accept that I’m pretty much an average guy (yes, you should be feeling sorry for “Mrs. Dayhoe” if you don’t already), average with the exception that I can run—really fast (and swear all at the same time).

In high school, I ran a 4.4/40. That means for every 1.1 seconds, I’ve advanced another ten yards in distance. Making it off the pine, well, that’s another story, a sad one at that.

Needless to say, I caught up to him by the next block (Garfield Street) and at this point, I was terrified—terrified that the Chipotle burrito that I devoured less than an hour prior was going to burst from me like it did from the foil wrapper.

Without even having to tackle him, I forced him to lie down on his stomach, spread his legs, and put his hands behind his back. The problem now was that I didn’t have anything to restrain him with other than my body weight (plus a 5lb. burrito that was churning away).

Luckily, an FBI officer returning from a prisoner drop-off saw me chasing him down the street and took the time after a long day to lend a hand and a set of cuffs, allowing me to place an out-of-breath call to SAPD.

At this time, a neighbor at the lofts, Maglite in hand, also arrived on the scene having heard me yelling when I originally confronted the tagger. I was amazed and thankful that he too came to help out.

The police showed up and had me fill out the standard police report. Let me tell you, since moving to Santa Ana, that’s one form I’ve filled out one too many times.

They asked me “What possessed you to try to take this extreme form of action?”

One thing came to mind*: The Greatest Fight Scene EVER.

The officer stated that very rarely do they catch taggers in the act and commended me for my actions, but not without chiding me of the lesson that I always forget in these situations: These kids could be concealing weapons—is it really worth it?

I say until Jack Bauer is back on the air satisfying my need for an adrenaline rush, then yes, yes it is.

*Okay, this one also came to mind as well.