Tall, lanky, bushy-haired George was a soccer ref while also a college student and youth group leader. He was often the one to instigate soccer games on the rooftop patio of First Presbyterian Church. Maybe too it was Freddie, James, and Arturo who kicked off the Wednesday night frivolity. Their ancestral home of Mexico embraced the sport much more exuberantly than did the United States. In either case, the memory of scrambling around the roof is vibrant and joyful.
I didn't particularly like soccer as a sport to play seriously, not like baseball, basketball, tennis, or track and field. More accurately, I should say I didn't like to compete in soccer. In those other sports, I did compete, for my neighborhood and for my school. But soccer on the rooftop was pure play. No pressure, no judgment, just fun.
That sense of freedom is what I seek when I turn to my kid toys, many of which I have kept with me for more than three decades. I don't even bother to close the sliding doors on my spare room closet where they are stored. Seeing the stacks of games and jigsaw puzzles, bins of LEGOs, and the 24-car carrying case of Matchbox cars reminds me that not every minute needs to be crammed with adult responsibilities.
My Bugs Bunny puzzle is all about letting my body and brain rest for a while. I sprawl out in the living room and where at first there is only a drab square of beige carpet, soon there is Elmer Fudd's chubby little chin peeking through his face mask on his suit of armor. Scarlet and purple flags unfurl on a cartoon castle and my biggest worry is looking for an outie jigsaw piece to match the oddly cut inie.
The cars, too, are about giving up a stiff-backed chair for a big patch of ground. I sit on the kitchen floor with my leg curled under my tush and right knee pulled to my chest, and pick out the metallic brown Porsche from the old school vinyl-sided carrying case. Seconds later, the tiny sports car speeds across the slick tile floor, takes a whacky, last-minute spin, and makes me laugh.
There are no rules when I play with my kid toys. No buzzers squawking to say I've spent too long coloring Fozzie Bear's hat, or posted signs prohibiting the use of the orange and gray crayons. There is only freedom. Deep down, gut-wrenching freedom. Something akin to gut-wrenching anyway. Little fizzy molecules skitter about my insides and make me shiver. Sometimes my arms prickle and the hair stands on end.
When I set about playing, really truly playing, I don't worry that the dink-um, dink-um noises I make for blinkers on the cars sound really stupid. Instead, I am astir in a world without computers or televisions, aging parents or looming deadlines. It is a place where the tow truck uses his turn signals because that's just the kind of guy he is, and the Daisy Duke Jeep revs her engine then jets across the floor backwards.
I didn't particularly like soccer as a sport to play seriously, not like baseball, basketball, tennis, or track and field. More accurately, I should say I didn't like to compete in soccer. In those other sports, I did compete, for my neighborhood and for my school. But soccer on the rooftop was pure play. No pressure, no judgment, just fun.
That sense of freedom is what I seek when I turn to my kid toys, many of which I have kept with me for more than three decades. I don't even bother to close the sliding doors on my spare room closet where they are stored. Seeing the stacks of games and jigsaw puzzles, bins of LEGOs, and the 24-car carrying case of Matchbox cars reminds me that not every minute needs to be crammed with adult responsibilities.
My Bugs Bunny puzzle is all about letting my body and brain rest for a while. I sprawl out in the living room and where at first there is only a drab square of beige carpet, soon there is Elmer Fudd's chubby little chin peeking through his face mask on his suit of armor. Scarlet and purple flags unfurl on a cartoon castle and my biggest worry is looking for an outie jigsaw piece to match the oddly cut inie.
The cars, too, are about giving up a stiff-backed chair for a big patch of ground. I sit on the kitchen floor with my leg curled under my tush and right knee pulled to my chest, and pick out the metallic brown Porsche from the old school vinyl-sided carrying case. Seconds later, the tiny sports car speeds across the slick tile floor, takes a whacky, last-minute spin, and makes me laugh.
There are no rules when I play with my kid toys. No buzzers squawking to say I've spent too long coloring Fozzie Bear's hat, or posted signs prohibiting the use of the orange and gray crayons. There is only freedom. Deep down, gut-wrenching freedom. Something akin to gut-wrenching anyway. Little fizzy molecules skitter about my insides and make me shiver. Sometimes my arms prickle and the hair stands on end.
When I set about playing, really truly playing, I don't worry that the dink-um, dink-um noises I make for blinkers on the cars sound really stupid. Instead, I am astir in a world without computers or televisions, aging parents or looming deadlines. It is a place where the tow truck uses his turn signals because that's just the kind of guy he is, and the Daisy Duke Jeep revs her engine then jets across the floor backwards.
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