The Boys of Summer

On hot summer days, when school is out of session, the neighborhood boys are drawn to the schoolyard like wildebeests to the Serengeti watering hole.

The first arrive before the nighttime cool has burned off.  They begin to throw, more to warm up their bodies than their arms.  They play simple games, throwing ground balls and pop-ups, to keep themselves occupied as the others arrive.

The popular athletic boys wander by late—confident that nothing will start until they’ve arrived.  They don’t need the warm-up; they’ll dominate the schoolyard anyway. The games are ready to start.

Captains are chosen, but they’re always the same.  Donnie is the most athletic of the boys. He’s alright, he has nothing to prove.  Dennis is small but fast—a blur on the bases.  Occasionally, Willy takes a turn.  He is athletic, although not quite as athletic as Donnie, and fast, although not as fast as Dennis. He’s also quieter than the others—less a natural captain.

The bat is tossed and caught.  It’s a game of musical hands; the winner is the one who can hold that last little bit of the knob.

The captains divide the boys, each selecting in turn.  This is how status is earned in the schoolyard—conferred by the most athletic.  The boys picked toward the end are forced to stand there, eyes turned downward, hoping yesterday’s single gets them picked a place or two higher today.

There always seems to be just the right number of boys to make up two full teams, nine or ten a side.  If there are fewer, they’ll make it work.  If there are more, some boys will be forced to sit and watch, waiting for someone to leave. Or maybe they'll leave first—no one will notice.

The morning game passes uneventfully until hungry stomachs demand a break.  Many will go home, to lunches prepared by mom or to scrounge around their kitchen pantries.  The lucky few with a few coins or a bill will flock to the burger joint down the street. They all get small drinks and take the free refill.

As the boys return, the games resume.  The afternoon sun bakes the now-shirtless boys.  They drip sweat and shade their eyes against the glare.  The game’s intensity rises with the heat.  Voices grow louder, tags a little more forceful.  One of the boys may even attempt the most dangerous of stunts: sliding on the asphalt, trading skin and blood for victory. A disputed play may trigger pushing and shoving but fights rarely break out—everyone knows who’s on top.  A great catch or timely hit matters more.

As the sun retreats, the heat subsides, signaling that dinnertime is approaching.  Some of the boys are expected to be home and washed before the evening meal.  They bid their goodbyes early.  Others come from families with more relaxed dinner rules.  Some will leave after hearing their names called out from a window down the street.  “Hey Mikey, it’s time to come home!”

As these boys leave, the game breaks down; there are no longer enough boys to make full teams.  The play returns to the simple games that started the day.  The boys who play them will have to find their own dinners—it won’t be waiting for them when they get home.  

The last boys leave as dusk settles in.

Tomorrow will be another day.

They will do it all again.