Rainy Days in Memories

I remember being unaffected by the rain when I was younger, thinking it would only enhance the fun I could have that day. Rainy days were the best days I could have as a younger kid.

Late morning would arrive, and the kids on our block would start to come outside and ask for others to play. A quick knock on the door and a summoning from a parent, then everyone would end up outside. We had a huge group.

There were three kids next door to my right, who usually provided the ball(s) for a game, another two houses down, who was interesting to me due to her interest in Percy Jackson. Two more lived across from each other that were best friends that bonded over dance routines, and a boy next to one of their houses, part of the main group I grew up with. A brother and a sister, mentioned in earlier entries, lived diagonally to the boy, and a large group of five, mainly foster kids, two houses down from there.

We would run around gathering everybody we could, racing across the wet pavement without fear of sliding on the puddles collecting on the uneven ground. The smell of the asphalt and mud from the lawns was always present, mingling with our own sweat once we had run long enough.

When everyone was collected outside, we gathered in the cul de sac to decide what to play. The twins in the farthest house from mine would shoot baskets in front of our house, and some of the others would join in an unorganized game while we debated such an important decision.

In the end, it was always the same. We started with a long game of kickball. The neighbors next to be provided a very bouncy ball and some bases, placed about two feet in front of parked cars on our left and right, and in the center for second where the cul de sac turned back into the street. Team captains were chosen without much debate (the foster kids were much older than me, and a lot stronger, so either the twins or the oldest would be captains).

Nobody usually kept much of a score. We switched off with the normal strikes and fouls, accused others of cheating and babying the ball, and that was that. I would kick a ball as hard and low to the ground as I could and race across the street to the dirtied white base. We would play until we were bored, or usually, until we hit someones car and the alarm went off.

Now these were times I found most thrilling, though I am disappointed to say so, but what else would you do as a kid. When everyone saw the ball heading for a car, we would tense up, and the second the car’s alarm wailed, everyone would suddenly vanish without a trace. In seconds, the street would be empty, save for the bases and a rolling ball. We would book it in all directions to the nearest bush, scramble up trees, and throw ourselves over and behind walls. If it was a Monday, some kids would end up in the trash bins.

Since I was so little, I obviously was not as quick. My closest friend at the time was my age, and we would panic as we pumped out little legs as fast as we could stand it. Normally, we would be ushered by an older kid, sometimes even just picked up and carried away. Being so young, the weight did not impact the speed at which these kids could run away, and my hair would whip around my face and the cold air would scratch my lungs as the older kids raced me down the street and up a tree.

The car alarm would sound for a long while after, and when it stopped, nobody dared come out for another few minutes. When we were sure we were in the clear, heads would pop out of random hiding spots cautiously. Dodge ball became the new game.

I was terrified of the older kids while playing, especially the foster kids. I mentioned before that they were strong. Well, they had a very strong throw. Even when you were struck out, our rule was that you moved to the space behind the other players area and played from there. You could go back to your space if somebody from your team caught the ball, as usual, but because they could play from behind, you were never safe.

If one of the older kids had a ball at any time, I was racing around the street in and pattern I could to avoid that ball, because if the ball hit anywhere, I was going to have a nasty bruise. Being little meant I could hide behind others easily, but it also meant I stayed in the game longer. On occasion, my small form would be the last one in our area, and I could not catch. My only hope was running and jumping around like crazy. If I had all of the balls in my area, I would pick them up and throw them away as fast as I could so I could start running across the wet ground again.

I remember feeling so proud one of these days. I was racing around in random rhythms, and the oldest, strongest kid threw a ball. It started flying right at me, too high for me to jump over and too low for me to duck under. I had accepted that I was going to have a huge bruise and have a burst of pain within the next second. My hands flew up to guard my face, and a second later, I was holding the ball. I caught a ball from the fiercest player outside and got him out. One of the twins on my team ran across to our area again excitedly, gave me a high five, and started playing again. Of course, the next few games I was hit a lot, and ended up very sore the next day, but I was still very proud.

Again, we would play until we were bored or hit a car, vanish from the streets until whatever alarm we caused stopped, and pick another game. We would stay out all day in our soaking sweatshirts and soggy socks. Before we would go in for the day, we would play hide-and-seek, our personal favorite as we played this anytime. I still remember all of our hiding spots, every bush, every branch in the trees, every truck bed we climbed into.

We played kickball two nights ago. We did not have all of our people. The friend my age and I played with the new young kids on our block, teaching them a new game to play. It was weird to be the old kid. The oldest kid. I miss being small enough to be raced away from the wailing alarms on the strong shoulder of another kid. Now I am the one carrying them away.

Last updated July 22, 2020