OK, NBD. Here's another tale from my un-legendary past: I was 6...

OK, NBD. Here's another tale from my un-legendary past: I was 6 years old in the day's of yore (1959). Mother was weeping and father was mad, and boy Barg was eaves-dropping to determine the fuss. Turns out they had been rejected membership at the local sporting club due to old country origins of Pom and Celt. The young master strategist, even then, thought this to be unfair, so next morning did rise at 5 of the AM when all were asleep, and with Lassy dog for an accomplice, did make my way to said club like a shadow borne. Had computed that if the folks couldn't gain membership and play the tennis game, and sip martini's in the aftermath, then no one could. So in the grey of dawn gained entry over the club wall as only a small boy could, and stole the windy thing; the crank they used to erect the net between combatant players.
That night I was summoned to a family meeting of serious portent of things to come - mother weeping anew and father with a wry grin disguised by feigned grave look. Apparently, my theft had been witnessed by an unseen groundsman who had identify me as the son of 'those immigrants' down the road. Demands of guilt and reason were made and I readily confessed. But that didn't save me from mother, a hard nose Scot, insisting my father punish me with his dreaded belt, the thievery a sin regardless of good intent. Thereupon, my father bid me follow to a room removed where he un-looped his leather. "I'm going to teach you a lesson, son" he said. "Now cry out in pain as I whip this chair, and make it sound convincing for your mothers sake." Sweet justice .