Let me take you back to an innocent time.

A time when people continuously speculated on the whereabouts of Carmen Sandiego. A time when people thought Zack from “Saved by the Bell” was the pinnacle of cool.

It was 1992 and I was 5 years old.

I had completely forgotten about this era, but I recently discovered a videotape containing precious family memories. After watching hours of family members parading around in unfortunate fashion choices, and witnessing a frightening number of MC Hammer impressions, I was done being nostalgic. I prepared to turn off my ancient VCR, but stopped when the flickering pixels on the TV displayed a young me dressed as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Thanks to this tape, I was able to reconstruct an important memory that was lost in the depths of my mind: my first fight.

It was Halloween. My parents lovingly watched as I strutted around the playground dressed as Michaelangelo, who is easily the coolest Ninja Turtle. I also sported my green tights, brown shell and orange mask at weddings and baptisms.

Eventually I slipped away from my parents’ gaze in search of some juice boxes. A few minutes into my quest I was confronted by the unholiest of sights: The Ninja Turtles’ archenemy, the Shredder, perched on the top of my favorite slide.

The boy dressed as the Shredder might have appeared cute to an outsider, but I knew his innocent act was a charade. I’d observed all of his evil plots on TV and I couldn’t look past all the times he attacked my reptilian brethren. He even stole the Statue of Liberty once, which was offensive not only as a Ninja Turtles fan, but also as a young American. I had an obligation to defend my school from his anti-pizza ways.

I surveyed the playground to see if any like-minded students could help with my mounting offensive. A girl to my left was adorned in unicorn apparel. Lame. The boy to my right was casting spells as a wizard — years before Harry Potter made wizards cool, so I also filed him under the lame category. The search was hopeless; I had to fight without other turtles by my side.

I started by calling out verbal warnings in the Shredder’s direction. Unfortunately, what sounded like legitimate threats in my head didn’t carry the same weight once the words were formed. I couldn’t pronounce “Shredder,” instead it sounded more like “Schwedah.” I wasn’t sure if he couldn’t understand me or if it was just unconvincing.

I had to meet the Shredder on equal ground. I couldn’t climb up the slide’s ladder because he could easily thwart my ascent. No, I decided to crawl up the slide itself. He still had the higher ground, but at least I would be in the position to attack. Fresh with motivation, I defiantly pointed at him and yelled, “I’m coming fow you Schwedah!”

For the first time he looked concerned.

I gripped the sides of the slide and slowly moved up the metallic surface. It was slippery, but my turtle slippers clung to the surface surprisingly well. I prepared for the approaching battle by pulling out my plastic nunchakus at the halfway point. Despite resistance from the Shredder, I finally reached the top of the slide.

The ensuing battle was extremely epic. By that I mean I totally dominated. He couldn’t match my lethal combination of kicks and nunchaku fury. However, the fight ended abruptly when a mob of concerned parents encircled us. We were both peeled off the slide. I was furious.

“But I hafe to get the Shwedah!” My parents chastised me for being a bully. But even though they were outwardly mad, I knew they were secretly grateful for my protection. My anger subsided and I left the playground feeling content. I didn’t get to finish the battle, but I did my part to stop evil that day. Cowabunga, dude.

8212;Jared Whitlock is a journalism senior.

8212;This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec.