By VINCE LUECKE
For kids who couldn’t yet spell tradition, we considered it a holy rite that had to be upheld at all costs. It was quite literally, a movable feast — it happened on our school bus every spring — auspiciously enough, on the ride home of the last day of school.
Looking back, it was the mother of all battles, water battles that is. It was sixth grader vs. sophomore, neighbor against neighbor and brother battling brother.