When I was a kid, a dude two or three years older and bigger than I was might as well have been from the moon.

Especially for specimens like me who were, in the tidy phrasing of the old man who’d befriended my father decades earlier in his native Queens, “a shvimp.”

For the so-disadvantaged, 10,000 indignities, talons at the ready, wait in the wings to spring out at any time.

Like the bully three years older than I was who made a sport of appearing out of nowhere on his bike, and threatening me after a few choice insults about my last name: “Whale.”

I was always the pint-sized kid whom the bigger kids on the playground or the ballfields of North Auburn Elementary School picked last for their team. And if, among the other players they chose, some happened to be my age and size, they always had something I absolutely didn’t — genuine athletic skills to make up for their small stature.

I tried to shrug off the rejections. Still, after the umpteenth time, they get to you, tear into your self-esteem. I began to feel for the Root Beer Barrels and other hard candies left at the bottom of the old Halloween bag, peering up and out at young eyes regarding them with regret, before the kid with the bag thrusts a hopeful hand int one last time, and finding no alternative, sighs, and, gag, makes his choice. It’s a painful moment.

Beyond the ballfields, some of the sky-ward trending guys were, well, if not exactly polite, of the type whose words “Hey, kid, get lost” inflicted no lasting sting. Because I got it — they didn’t want me hanging around, diminishing the luster of their carefully-crafted teen cool, or pointing out that the few hairs on their faces did not actually a beard make.

And when girls came into the picture, the older guys abruptly banished us into the outer darkness to wail and gnash our teeth.

I remember trying to find out what the fuss the older guys had about beer and wine was about. The opportunity came one evening when I spotted a bottle of wine in the kitchen cupboard. I asked dad if I could taste it. Just a little sip. At first, he said no, then, giving me a look I had not seen before on his face, complemented by a gleam in his eyes that should have roused my young suspicions, he changed his answer:

“Sure, kid, go ahead.”

I took a bold sip. Aaagghhh, cooking sherry! Gag full of salt and other seasonings. And for a kid, simply a revolting, stomach turner. Dad got quite a laugh out of my “hock-tuey” reaction. I suspect that, privately, he was satisfied he’d turned me off alcohol for life.

I’m sure other former kids out there could supply their own tales about sinking their teeth into the bitter disappointment of a bar of Baker’s Chocolate, and fleeing for a time from mere hints of the confection.

Funny. I am now 62 years old, and having tacked on more than a few years, the big kids of yore are still out there. I see them about Auburn, and most of them turned out to be ordinary, decent guys.

I suspect that’s the way it has always been and will continue to be.

Robert Whale can be reached at robert.whale@auburn-reporter.com.