This is a true story that happened to my friend Christina years ago. She was working at a public relations firm with a pack of twenty other recent college graduates. Just a step above interns, they were expected to do everything except use their brains. Still, they were happy to be employed and hoping to advance. After a few months on the job, Christina and the cast of twenty or so newbies were summoned to the conference room. No one was getting promoted, but someone was about to be fired.

The manager circled the oval table jam-packed with Christina and her co-workers. Her boss started explaining how someone had been stealing lunches from the kitchen. And when they discovered who had been doing it, the person would be terminated immediately.

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Insider trading just got a whole lot easier.

The ambiguity of what constitutes insider trading has been the biggest deterrent of illegal practices over the last 6 years — that and watching all the perp walks down by City Hall on television. As soon as the crackdown began in 2009, fear has been running rampant on the Street. Nobody wanted to be next. Two days ago if you asked ten traders what exactly was considered trading on inside information —you would have gotten ten similar, but also very different answers because no one really knew exactly where the line was drawn in the sand. And that was terrifying.

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I’m car number 12 out of 18. Two men in black and gold security jackets and sunglasses stand at the front of the line, directing traffic. With a wave of their hands they instruct each driver to move forward. We inch along slowly, haltingly, tensely, like tourists trying to cross the border from Mexico back into the U.S. The security guys look tough; they remind me of bouncers at a Manhattan bar I frequented in the ’90s. I turn off my radio.

It’s almost my turn and the security guys look me up and down. I smile. They give me an obligatory half-smile, a half-nod; all business. When I’m close enough, I throw my car in park, jump out and run around to the other side. My daughter is in the back seat (of course). She unbuckles and grabs her backpack. I reach in and grab the large black case next to her—her cello—and hand it to her. With a kiss on the forehead I tell her to have a great day at school, and I linger for just a moment as I watch her—dwarfed by the instrument—march toward early morning orchestra practice.

Just before she disappears into another gauntlet of security, I have to move on. There’s a long line of cars behind mine. One of the security guards shakes his head and waves his hand for me to leave.

As I drive home, I start thinking about this article: how different life is now from when I was growing up, starting with how extensive the security is at my daughter’s elementary school, where we live on Long Island in the New York City suburbs, as opposed to my experience 35 years ago.

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We hear clicking cleats on concrete as the other team walks toward our football field. They already look defeated. They know they’re in trouble. We’ve had eight games so far this season, and we’ve let the opposition score a combined total of three points against us. We lost our first game to Colby College 3-0 and we’ve since pitched seven consecutive shutout victories. We don’t just want to win; we want to dominate. We don’t just want to tackle them when they have the ball; we want them to remember being tackled. We play like a pack of wild dogs.

It’s snowing. Slush covers the field. Big flakes continue to fall. Kents Hill School took a two-hour bus ride to get here—here being, New Hampton Prep, where I’m continuing my education. I graduated from high school last year, and I’ve added a post-graduate year. . I want to play football in college, and an extra season will allow me to get bigger, faster and stronger.

Our whole team is a little off. Every guy has a backstory. He wants to get bigger, or he wants to improve his grades or there’s some other reason why he landed in a remote town in the mountains of New Hampshire for a fifth year of high school. We’re a team of 22 kids from all over New England. Most of us had success on the field in high school. And we’re all a little bit mental.

The other team should have stayed home. By the third quarter the snow has stopped, but we haven’t. We’ve got another shutout on the board in the third quarter. Kents Hill has the ball, and they accomplish something opposing teams rarely do—they get the ball past our side of the 50-yard line. They desperately want to score. It’d be a victory to do what no other team has done all season against us—score a touchdown. But not today. Not on our watch.

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Unwrapped Christmas gifts cover every inch of the kitchen table. Stuffed animals stacked on top of Barbie dolls stacked on top of puzzles stacked on top of Nintendo DS gadgets stacked on top of Dream Houses. There are too many to count. Lola, my daughter, sits on a chair in front of the table. I walk into the room with two rolls of wrapping paper under my arm, scissors, tape and some green and red bows.

“We’re gonna wrap these presents like Eminem and Snoop Dogg,” I say.

Lola slowly turns her head and gives me a motherly look, like I’m the eight-year-old who just told a fart joke. She deliberately blinks her eyes to add effect.

“That’s not funny,” she says.

“It’s a little funny,” I say.

“No. And who the heck is Snoop Dogg?”

“He’s a rap legend. Fo shizzle.”

“What?”

“Never mind, we have to wrap all of these gifts. Let’s start an assembly line.”

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