Wall Ball

I'm sitting at a picnic table at a local park with a group of kindergarten moms, some of whom I do know, most of whom I don't. We are gathered en masse to encourage our sons to burn off some energy and discuss important current events like what's on sale at Children's Place.

"What are they doing over there?" asked one of the moms, gesturing in the direction of the decrepit tennis court, where our collective offspring are gathered.

I didn't bother looking up as I was fairly certain that the answer would involve one of my sons scaling a chain link fence or poking something or someone with a long stick.

"As long as they're not over here, I don't care what they're doing!" chirped a woman named Marie as everyone else at the table stared at her with raised eyebrows.

Sensing one of my own, I instinctively scooted closer to this woman.

"That looks dangerous," observed a third mom, rising slightly out of her seat to get a closer look. When no one else joined her, she sat back down and began wringing her hands nervously.

When I finally looked up a few minutes later, I was not at all surprised to see half a dozen six-year-old boys lined up against the back wall of the tennis court. A seventh boy was standing about ten feet in front of the group. At his command, the group turned around and pressed their noses against the wall.

Marie let out a long, loud sigh and crossed her legs. "It's called Wall Ball,'" she told us, just as the boy retrieved a tennis ball from his pocket, took aim, and fired.

One of the boys was hit in the leg and started crying. Several mothers jumped to their feet.

"Since when is getting hurt 'fun'?" questioned one mother in despair.
"Who would play such a horrifically violent game?" wondered another.

It wasn't until these questions were posed that I realized why I found the game so strangely appealing; namely, it bore a striking resemblance to my favorite childhood past time, a game called Butts Up. The principle is the same, except in Butts Up, the bulls eye is an exposed butt cheek. Playing Butts Up in middle school is how I made all of my friends. It also earned me lots of detentions and a reputation as an exhibitionist.

The boy that got pelted by the ball turned out to be my son Kellen. He limped toward me and pulled up his pant's leg to reveal a quarter-sized welt on the back of his thigh.

The other mothers let out appropriately loud gasps of indignation.

"I have a first aid kit in my car!" volunteered one woman.
"I have one in my purse!" screeched another, reaching for her diaper bag.

"I got pegged with the ball," Kellen cried, pointing to his wound in between sobs.

"Isn't that the point?" I asked.

Kellen stopped crying long enough to re evaluate his goals.

"I got pegged with the ball!" he shouted exuberantly and ran back to the group, who took turns admiring the battle wound and vowing to get bigger and better ones in future rounds.

Against their mothers' wishes, the boys lined up for Round Two. Learning from their previous mistakes, they increased their chances of being hit by extending their arms and legs. Determined to catch the bouquet, my other son Cortlen wiggled his bottom as well.



My heart swelled with pride at this unprompted gesture.

Maybe there is hope for my children yet.