Skateboarding is more than a sport. It’s a way of life. It exceeds far more than just doing tricks on a board. It is a culture of its’ own that can only be understood once you become a skateboarder. With that being said, it was the highlight of my life back then. It’s all I ever wanted to do before, during, and after school for the longest time. Skating isn’t easy; it takes balance, skill, love, and most importantly patients. Patients of which I did not have. I’m a very impatient, easily frustrated, and hot-tempered person, but am also a very quick learner. Fortunately for me skateboarding came so natural. But I did have to learn to be patient as well. So in a short matter of a month after being on a skateboard, I landed my first trick; the Kick flip. Over time I had gotten so good at them that I could do them over and over with no problem and pretty soon I was able to land them off of stair sets. Now anyone who stayed on a skateboard long enough could do a kick flip so all of my friends still called me a, “Poser.” That is the most disrespectful thing to say to a skater and to think I was called one. I felt like an outsider around the people who shared the same passion as I. It was blasphemy. So on a hot summer day I set off to the Wylie Skate Park and decided to do something I knew I wasn’t ready for, but I had to do it at some point if I ever wanted to prevail. There is a huge seven stair made of cold concrete, stained with blood red smearing’s, and feared upon by most that approach it. That day I decided to try a kick flip off of it. I told know one because I didn’t want the attention on me when I attempted it. So with my knees all cut up from the earlier skating and energy running away like a prisoner, I took the leap of faith! Gliding through the humid sweet air as the board spins under me, I at first thought I had it! But mid-way in, the board began to wonder beneath my weightless body. In a failed attempt to bail out in the mid air, I tried to kick the board away form me but it was all too late. My sweaty, frail face smacked the ice like concrete. Still in pain, I rose. Blots of red were on the ground leaking from my warm cheeks and rough knees. Even so, with my wounded knee I stood up. It took a month, but I soon had a beautiful scar on my left knee. The fascinating thing is that I later found out from my skater friends that my scar is called a skateboard scar and everyone brave enough to try tricks like that of stairs that big had them. It was at that very moment that I knew I had gained respect. I was no longer a, “Poser.” I felt amazing. So I skated with my friends that I like to call blood brothers for along time after that. For we shed different blood, but for the same reason. For the love of the culture I now belonged too. We were true skateboarders.