Kick that !@%$#% ball!

In preparation for Sunday's hopeful kickball game at Dolores Park... i took some practice on the schoolyard. It was second lunch on a terribly bright day, my eyes recoiling from the incandescent celestial ceiling overhead. A spring day in San Francisco.

I was making my recess rounds twirling a whistle around my fingertip and taking a minute to yak with various kids about how to beat the final stage in Super Mario Kart and why Mexico's World Cup team is dangerous to make large bets on. This is my normal day. After lunch i scrounge up a few balls and set up a kickball game in one corner and a soccer game in the other. Sometimes the girls join the games, but for the most part they like to talk in gaggles, giggling all the while. In fifth grade it unnerved me to no end... the burst of laughter from such a flock and my silent sweetheart among them. Was she telling them about my sweaty palms when we held hands? Did they catch me picking my nose?

I was wandering back and forth, i played goalie for a while and screamed and shouted encouraging everyone to do headers from towering kicks. Kids were rubbing their sore heads and smiling; it did kind of hurt. And then looking toward the kickball game i took my leave, electing a new goalie as i walked away. The kickball field was a mess: kids scattered haphazard, bunched on homeplate fighting for position, clueless bewildered outfielders clumped in centerfield unaware of left and right. Not to mention a terrible discrepancy common to schoolyard kickball~ all the cool big 5th grade kids on one team and the shrimpy scraps of 4th grade nerddom comprising its foe.

It was like fetch at the dogpark, big kids walloping balls into gaps and corners and the little kids running to retrieve. Makes my heart kinda skip a beat seeing all this. Reminded me of my poor Mariners facing the Yankees throughout the 90's; a rout, in other words. And me at the ballpark, scraping my chocolate malt with that little wooden spoon, feeling kinda mad at the pinstripes. And to boot, the big kids were cheating, claiming they were safe in shameless out fashion. Like that time Alex Rodriguez slapped the ball out of Arroyo's mitt in Game 6 with the Red Sox. Just shameless...

I couldn't take it anymore. I stepped in, "Terrence, you're out. Gimme a break!" A murderous 5th grade look crossed his face a second before he assented, loping back toward the bench. I helped the kids get the final two outs. They'd been on the field nearly fifteen minutes shagging balls for the big kids. They quickly lined up in nervous anticipation of finally kicking, but sadly their teammates kicked dribblers up the first base line. Two outs. It looked like a one-two-three inning for the underdogs. But then, out of nowhere, Mr. Jesse stepped up to the plate. I turned back and readied the kids for a team run, a special rule applied when all the kids get to run around the bases, like a walk-off grandslam. It usually really infuriates the other team, so i decided this would be a great time. My left foot got every bit of rubber and the ball bounded long and far, twisting by the flag pole. We screamed, we hollered, we taunted... and as we gathered at home plate, the lunchbell rang.

Postscript. Sunday's game is on! Bring your own beer and dignity!