I’m barely even in the play when my best friend brings a kid to his knees with a fake split dodge. But this is my clearest memory from lacrosse camp that year. I’m standing on the top of the box and chewing my mouth guard. Johnny takes on his victim one on one, and John is good at one on one.

Every summer, I challenge Johnny's stick skills at my parents’ beach house’s backyard, using the charcoal grill as a goal, and now I’m watching him perform his signature dodge in the championship game.

And I know it’s going to work.

During the summer of 2007, Johnny and I spent four days at the University of Delaware lacrosse camp. Everything we do at camp – the shooting drills and motivational lectures from coaches – leads up to the last day, the championship games between the two top teams in each age group.

When I recall being a goofy 14-year-old, Johnny is always there. Even after spending three years at different colleges, he’s still right there, in a text about how Bob Dylan actually wrote "Wagon Wheel," or a hilarious late night FaceTime call.

And there are certain clips from my early teen-hood with this kid that pop out like thought clouds. Like desperate attempts at making girls laugh while sitting on railings on the Bethany Beach boardwalk, ding dong ditching our friends in the neighborhood, and this lacrosse camp.

Somehow I became known around camp as “Super Mario.” A kid named Walker dubbed it. Johnny still calls me this when I do something athletic. Which isn’t very often.

This kid named Robby tells us he used to run several miles just to meet a brick wall in another neighborhood, where he would do hundreds of brick pass drills by himself and an absurd amount of push-ups whenever he dropped a pass... We think this story is bull crap.

On our last dinner, Robby starts a food fight.

He throws a banana peel at his buddy three tables down. Two cookies fly back.

Johnny and I look at each other for unspoken approval to join in. I give him a nod; he returns a half smirk.

After dinner, we lie in our beds, too exhausted to move. Johnny asks me if I still have a crush on Michelle. I say yes. We laugh about Robby’s bull crap story. Then fall asleep.

It’s the last day – the championship game. For the 13 to 14 age group, it’s Johnny's and my team, “The Yard Sales” (a lacrosse term). I’m at right middy, Johnny's at left. Walker (Super Mario kid) plays defensive midfield, and food fight kid is our X attack man.

We’re playing a big team. One 6-foot-2 guy with a beard faces off against Walker. Bearded kid wins the face off, with cleats digging into the grass, kicking up dirt with each drag, and scoring a bouncer in the bottom corner.

It’s 9 to 9 with 2 and a half minutes left in the fourth period. We need a goal.

Johnny's taking on bearded kid from midfield… one on one.

He face dodges right and rips a shot from the top of the box, flying over the goal out of bounds. The ref blows his whistle.

“Super! Get in there,” coach says.

Whenever I hear my name on the sidelines after a play like this, my heart jumps out of my chest. We’re tied, and I’m in.

Food fight kid clears the ball from the X, and passes it to the center middy. I follow the ball, picking center middy’s man, allowing enough space for a loft pass across field back to Johnny on the top right corner of the box. Johnny back pedLs to create space for another one-on-one attempt.

I have been playing with this kid for so long; I know all his moves. This time, he raises his right foot with a high cradle to the left. I know what’s coming.

He shifts his entire body weight to the left, at a speed of around 14 mph, and at an angle so exaggerated he looks like he’s breaking the laws of physics. The defender follows his lead, shoving his stick into Johnny's left hip. But Johnny deflects the poke with a shoulder pivot.

He leans back toward the right, switching hands with a juggle toss of the stick. But this switch lasts about a quarter of a second, bringing him back to his left like he’s a human seesaw a fat kid just sat on. Leading with his left foot, he blasts off his defender’s right shoulder into open field.

It’s a fake split dodge. I’m watching from my beach chair. Were barefoot in the grass, listening to O.A.R., and Johnny’s making his move toward the charcoal grill.

Raising his stick above his left ear, he launches the ball into the opposite top right shelf. With 17 seconds remaining, he scores.

We win, bearded kid is pissed, and Johnny and I are drinking Slurpees.