Kids aren’t as tough as they used to be or, at least, we won’t let them be.

You don’t have to go much further than the McDonald’s Playland for evidence. Today, kids play inside in a climate controlled system of hard plastic tubes and enclosed slides. The floor is padded and almost soft enough to take a nap on. Today’s Playland generation takes off its shoes and never risks a fall of more than two feet. The only time pain is involved is when an ice cream headache attacks a child after he’s sucked down a chocolate milkshake too fast trying to get to the plastic tower quicker than his play–date buddy. The parents sit inches away sipping their McCafé coffee as they monitor Junior’s every little move.

In 1976, the McDonald’s Playland was a proving ground for kids – much like the obstacle course is for Navy Seals. There was no controlled environment. The playground was outside with the elements, and the only thing separating my generation from a busy four–lane highway was a short split–rail fence and some malnourished holly bushes.

The closest thing to a helicopter parent we had was the poor divorced dad who happened to have his kids for the weekend and had no choice but to sit quietly at the picnic benches on the other end of the playground paying more attention to his pack of Marlboros than his children. Most of the other parents were eating their Big Macs or on the way to the mall across the street.

Our playground was covered in thick gravel. There was no foam padding or even mulch – just rocks. These rocks fit perfectly inside a size four canvas Nike or an oversized bully’s slingshot. This maniacal layer of gravel made running hard and landings harder, especially when someone jumping from the swings found that one spot in the gravel that had worn thin to reveal the concrete–like sand below.

In 1976, the playground equipment was pure metal, and in mid–July, it heated up to around four or five gozillion degrees. In other words, burgers weren’t the only things McDonald’s fried. After a trip down the slide in the summertime, it wasn’t uncommon for little, rookie legs to be more well–done than the Quarter Pounders. And, if the hot metal didn’t get you, then the protruding bolts up, down, and all around the equipment surely would.

To make matters even more interesting, there was no size or age limitation when I was a kid. Bored, sadistic teenagers played right alongside innocent toddlers in droopy diapers, which made for some terrifying rides on the Hamburglar Merry–Go–Round. Big kids could get that thing turning faster than the Tasmanian Devil. The children without good grips would appear from a cloud of spinning dust, gravel, and screaming children and fly through the air like helpless calves in a Kansas twister eventually landing and sliding face–first in the gravel. But they’d get up, pick the gravel out of their cheeks, and run off to the Mayor McCheese teeter–totter for

some more fun.

Today, the closest a child gets to that kind of terror is with an Xbox 360. However, I’m afraid no video game can simulate the pain of searing metal or the G–force generated by a 15–year–old and a Hamburglar Merry–Go–Round.