Spring tonic: Kick the ball and go, chicken fat, go-o-o-o! - Columns

By Cindy Stauffer

Updated Feb 19, 2007 15:52

On a warm Sunday afternoon, we head down the hill to our neighborhood park to play.

We settle on teams.

Dad as the all-time pitcher.

Me and the boy vs. the soccer-playing girls.

Ha. They think they are so hot.

The boy and I slap hands, high-fiving and trash-talking. We will show them.

This.

I had forgotten all of it.

The do-overs. That funny little hop-step you take just before you kick the ball.

All of the great squabbling. It�s a mandatory aspect of any good kickball game. (Hey, hey, HEY! WHAT? You can�t take more than one on a throw-over! GET BACK THERE!)

But before long, I am a kid again, legs pumping under my culottes, bangs flapping in the wind, as I round the bases at Nitrauer Elementary School, where the grass seemed to go on forever and the sound of a sneaker thwapping a red rubber ball was the best thing about spring.

OK, so we are using a a scuffed-up soccer ball we rummaged out of our shed and playing on a dusty baseball diamond.

And these shoes are wrong, wrong, wrong, slip-ons that are in danger of flying off every time I kick the ball. Who could play in these things? And I should have worn shorts. These jeans are too tight for kicking.

Another mandatory part of any good kickball game: lots of excuses.

Sigh.

This.

I love all of it.

Why do I love kickball so much? Why is it enjoying a resurgence in adult kickball leagues around the country?

For me, it goes all the way back to 1967.

Back then, my idea of a really great gym class was when the teacher put �Chicken Fat� on the record player and we did jumping jacks, toe-touches and backwards arm circles to Robert Preston�s peppy commands. I was particularly partial to the bicycle ride, done on your back, legs rotating away in the air.

�Nuts to the flabby guys! Go, you chicken fat, go away! Go, you chicken fat, go-o-o-o!�

I liked to run around but I wasn�t too good at anything that required strength, balance, hand-eye coordination or any other athletic ability you could mention. I couldn�t shinny up the rope, even the one that had all those big knots tied in it for the weaker kids. I never even learned how to turn a cartwheel.

But darn it, I could kick a kickball.

And once in a miraculous while, I could even catch one.

After a few innings, the old ways return to me.

The compulsory dance and gloating after you cross homeplate. The satisfying thunk as your ball makes contact with a player�s backside as she runs between bases.

(Not too hard a thunk, of course. These are my own daughters, after all.)

Automatic backups in the outfield for anyone who can put some mustard on the ball. (Hey, is that girl wearing cleats?)

And then my older daughter kicks a perfect pop-up and I race toward it, my arms outstretched, waiting, hoping, praying...

I flub and it bounces from my hands.

Doh! The worst!

For days afterward, I listen to a daily kickball report after school. My younger daughter proudly displays a skinned knee earned in one game. The boy gives a progress update on his pop-up fielding, distraught over every miss.

I feel his pain.

I get to school early to pick up the kids, and he is playing kickball in a swirling, shouting bunch of third-graders.

A kicker pops a ball into the air.

By the fence I am holding my breath as he races toward it, arms outstretched, waiting, hoping, praying...

He catches it.

I feel his joy.

(The Voices column is written by a rotating team of New Era staffers. It appears Mondays.)

Talkback on LancasterOnline

Welcome to the new TalkBack on LancasterOnline. Please use the comment box below to share your opinion on this article. If you would prefer to use the previous TalkBack forums instead, please use this link.