One high school night I was standing in the parking lot of a local coffee shop engaging in the ritual of kicking a hacky sack around with a bunch of other guys, many of them with tie-die shirts and oversized, yellow-and-green hats. We'd been there a few minutes when three police cars, lights on but sirens off converged from all points disgorging officers who fanned out, surrounding us. It seemed an overreaction back then. With the wisdom of time, it's now obvious to me that they assumed there was some kind of illegal activity fueling our interest in hacky sack. Any type of profiling is, of course, absurd and illegal, but it's not surprising that the police in my small community assumed kicking a hacky sack is a gateway to headier, illegal forms of entertainment. It is, after all, rather dull on its own.