THE LUNAR REPORT - "KICK THE CAN" April 12, 2010
Last Friday night I heard a few neighbor children squeal and laugh. It was around dusk. Just before the perfect kick-the-can time of day. That’s the time of day when the neighborhood quiets down a bit. Traffic subsides. Dads are reading newspapers. Moms are clearing the dishes. Walter Cronkite's quiet and gentle authoritative voice fills the background in all the neighborhood living rooms. Or at least, that’s the way it was in my neighborhood.
I tried to demonstrate the suspense and excitement of a Friday night kick-the-can event to my son and his friends when they were little guys. But we lived a rural life then. Kick-the-can is for city folk. My little bumpkins never understood. I hate that for them. Besides, Dan Rather in the background is something less than memorable.
When I was a kick-the-can kid, I lived in the Fairfax neighborhood of Jacksonville, Florida. It was an area maybe seven blocks deep and 3 blocks wide. Squared off and rectangular blocks. No curves. No hills. Just houses. Neat little houses.
You never really wandered away from your own sort of two or three block circle of friends and neighbors. You didn’t need to. Everyone a young kid needed was to be found nearby. There were 13 of us. Four girls. Nine guys.
Kick-the-can is a game of hide and seek. “Base” is a tin can. For us it was placed on the sidewalk. Usually somewhere between my house and the Mason’s. The kid who is “it” protects the can. When “it” sees a kid hiding, he or she should yell, “One-two-three on...” whoever, then touch the top of the can with the bottom of his or her foot. Whoever is captured has to hang around the base. That is until someone behind “it’s” back, runs and kicks the can. Kicking the can frees all prisoners.
That was some intense Friday night stuff. It was the focus of every kid in the neighborhood on Fridays. We looked forward to it. A chance to be outside, in the dark, protecting our turf and our friends, saving Sally Mason and others, confusing “it” to the point of total humiliation. Friday night kick-the-can was war. We did what we were called to do.
And the exhilaration. Hiding as quietly as we could. Peering out between azalea shrubs and twisted oak tree moss. Watching “it,” being just as quiet as the targets of his aggression, calmly scour the horizon for his prey while holding his silent and dejected prisoners close by. We wait. We watch. We study “it’s” vulnerabilities.
“It” takes a few steps towards Roosevelt Boulevard. Then stops. Looks toward the houses across the street. Then glances at his prisoners. Takes another step toward Roosevelt. Then runs the opposite way, toward Herschel Street and past the can. “It” thinks he hears someone. He is wrong. So he straddles the can, whistling, as if to tell those of us in the moss and azaleas that he has everything under control. Suddenly, one of the prisoners stands straight up, smiles, and points toward Roosevelt. “It” runs to capture others. Arthur, arguably the quickest runner of us all, runs to the can and kicks it as far as anyone ever has. All are freed once again, scattering themselves back into the shadow and disguise of the moss and shrubs.
Man. We made a real difference back then. In our own little Spring and Summer Friday night kick-the-can world.
I do not recall how each of us played the game. I don’t remember how “it” was chosen. I don’t even remember how I played the game. I remember watching from the darkness and whispering strategy with Johnny. I remember running as hard as I could and kicking the can as far as I could. I remember feeling like a hero to Sally and others I freed.
But I also remember being a very cautious little runt. Sneaky even. My guess is that when I was “it,” I protected that can as well as any skinny little kid could. I’m guessing that, for the most part, I just stood there, daring anyone to come close. Once the others grew tired of my kick-the-can version of Dean Smith’s 4-corner stall offense, they would show their scurrilous faces. And I would need only step one foot to touch the can and one-two-three them.
Those Friday nights were as perfect as any Friday nights I have had since. Much more perfect, I imagine, than any I will have again. But the squealing and laughter I heard a couple of nights ago. Well, that made last Friday night as close to perfect as it gets these days.
I tried to demonstrate the suspense and excitement of a Friday night kick-the-can event to my son and his friends when they were little guys. But we lived a rural life then. Kick-the-can is for city folk. My little bumpkins never understood. I hate that for them. Besides, Dan Rather in the background is something less than memorable.
When I was a kick-the-can kid, I lived in the Fairfax neighborhood of Jacksonville, Florida. It was an area maybe seven blocks deep and 3 blocks wide. Squared off and rectangular blocks. No curves. No hills. Just houses. Neat little houses.
You never really wandered away from your own sort of two or three block circle of friends and neighbors. You didn’t need to. Everyone a young kid needed was to be found nearby. There were 13 of us. Four girls. Nine guys.
Kick-the-can is a game of hide and seek. “Base” is a tin can. For us it was placed on the sidewalk. Usually somewhere between my house and the Mason’s. The kid who is “it” protects the can. When “it” sees a kid hiding, he or she should yell, “One-two-three on...” whoever, then touch the top of the can with the bottom of his or her foot. Whoever is captured has to hang around the base. That is until someone behind “it’s” back, runs and kicks the can. Kicking the can frees all prisoners.
That was some intense Friday night stuff. It was the focus of every kid in the neighborhood on Fridays. We looked forward to it. A chance to be outside, in the dark, protecting our turf and our friends, saving Sally Mason and others, confusing “it” to the point of total humiliation. Friday night kick-the-can was war. We did what we were called to do.
And the exhilaration. Hiding as quietly as we could. Peering out between azalea shrubs and twisted oak tree moss. Watching “it,” being just as quiet as the targets of his aggression, calmly scour the horizon for his prey while holding his silent and dejected prisoners close by. We wait. We watch. We study “it’s” vulnerabilities.
“It” takes a few steps towards Roosevelt Boulevard. Then stops. Looks toward the houses across the street. Then glances at his prisoners. Takes another step toward Roosevelt. Then runs the opposite way, toward Herschel Street and past the can. “It” thinks he hears someone. He is wrong. So he straddles the can, whistling, as if to tell those of us in the moss and azaleas that he has everything under control. Suddenly, one of the prisoners stands straight up, smiles, and points toward Roosevelt. “It” runs to capture others. Arthur, arguably the quickest runner of us all, runs to the can and kicks it as far as anyone ever has. All are freed once again, scattering themselves back into the shadow and disguise of the moss and shrubs.
Man. We made a real difference back then. In our own little Spring and Summer Friday night kick-the-can world.
I do not recall how each of us played the game. I don’t remember how “it” was chosen. I don’t even remember how I played the game. I remember watching from the darkness and whispering strategy with Johnny. I remember running as hard as I could and kicking the can as far as I could. I remember feeling like a hero to Sally and others I freed.
But I also remember being a very cautious little runt. Sneaky even. My guess is that when I was “it,” I protected that can as well as any skinny little kid could. I’m guessing that, for the most part, I just stood there, daring anyone to come close. Once the others grew tired of my kick-the-can version of Dean Smith’s 4-corner stall offense, they would show their scurrilous faces. And I would need only step one foot to touch the can and one-two-three them.
Those Friday nights were as perfect as any Friday nights I have had since. Much more perfect, I imagine, than any I will have again. But the squealing and laughter I heard a couple of nights ago. Well, that made last Friday night as close to perfect as it gets these days.
Please visit the sites of some of my friends.
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