I remember that Sunday morning well. I used to throw a tennis ball against our front stairs (with our welcome Matt placed as a plate). Ever so often, the ball would hit the top of the stair, bounce back and hit our wooden door, making a huge 'whomp'. My dad would then storm outside, cursing me as I ran away and hid. This particular Sunday morning, I was watching TV when the whole house shook, and my dad then stormed out the front door yelling at me. I went out and said I was in the den and didn't do it. Initially, he didn't believe me, but then realized I couldn't have gotten into the den that fast.