So the other day I bumped into Hoa and her little brother again while I was leaving my place in the morning. I ran back inside and pulled out a big superball. I bounced it a few times to demonstrate its super bouncing qualities, then handed it to Hoa. She smiled and in turn gave it to her little brother. He looked rather nonplussed, so I'm not sure he grasped the true nature of this small miracle of modern chemistry in his hands. I'm sure he and his big sister have discovered its amazing properties by now.
Ah, the warm nostalgic haze of childhood superball memories. Someone should write a book, or at least a piece for the front section of the New Yorker. I always managed to lose a new ball within an hour, though. I would throw it at the ground as hard as I could in search of a new bouncing record, and it would rocket off and disappear into the superball ether.
(AJ - I had only one big superball so I did not give them two. The others I have are quite small and I feared the boy would put it in his mouth and possibly choke on it.)