Barefoot Tackle Football  I'm on an airplane, either in Australia or flying to Australia. Everyone, including me, has his or her own large seat for sleeping and relaxing. I sit at the back of the plane. There are star NBA players on the plane. We're on the ground. There is a question about whether a gas or oil leak would be preferred. I say I'd rather have an oil leak. The oil filter at the rear of the plane needs to be changed before we take off. The filter is a white cylinder about five feet long and three inches in diameter. We seem to be in Sydney. The advisor will meet us at a place. We drive through a roundabout to get there. An ambulance drives past us with its lights and sirens on.  I'm riding a bicycle with my friends Bubba Hacker and Stephen Ramos. We're going to a National Guard place that seems to be on the east side of Wilmerton. I ride behind Bubba. He has gas, and it smells. My handlebars are crooked and thin, and seem like they could fall apart. We arrive at the place to play football. A group of men are already playing tackle football, wearing pads and blue jerseys. I'm barefoot, and am wary about playing football with them. My high school classmate Wyatt Belzer, and other physically large men, are there. I don't have any shoes to protect me feet. We walk over to the group. There are many hornets buzzing around me. I don't want to get stung.