When you finally strutted over the threshold into that dank, dimly-lit lobby, welcoming wafts of preteen sock and pepperoni would flock your nostrils like bees to spilled Kool-Aid--a familiar aroma that signaled the hours of fun ahead. You'd charge to the roller blade rental counter and strap on your gear as fast as possible--no helmets or pads, of course--the crusty constellation of scabs on your kneecaps were crimson badges of toughness, which you could only hope multiplied throughout the day.