By the time I was 16, I had already gone through three Glory Gilmores. She was six inches of garishly-painted plastic with 31 points of articulation, the queen of my action figure kingdom. And yet, she kept getting lost.

Original Glory was a victim of the neighbors’ dog, her head gouged with teeth-marks and drowned in slobber. I hated that fucking dog.

Glory II was slaughtered during one of Melissa Perkins’ infamous fourth grade recess rampages. Melissa — playground enforcer and Laura Ashley-swathed devil spawn — spotted an opening when Glory fell out of my pocket during an extended run on the monkey bars. Her massive Mary Jane crushed those plastic limbs to smithereens.

Glory the Third…oh, this is a sad one. Andy Oppenheimer, who was second chair to my first chair clarinet, gave me Glory the Third for my fifteenth birthday after hearing about the untimely demises of Glorys I and II (we had a lot of time on our hands because the band director was always trying to get the goddamn trombone section in tune). Now that I look back on it, I think maybe he liked me a little bit.  Unfortunately, I was going through a rather short-lived phase of “maturity” and donated my entire action figure collection to Goodwill. I only hope Glory the Third ended up in a good home.

Of course, there was one final Glory…The Last Glory. When I lost her, it was due to one thing and one thing only: my own excruciating stupidity.

I only hope that someday she’ll find it in her heart to come back to me.