About Recess and Grace

Post 268:

            Back in elementary school, recess was the best. Thinking about it, I can’t put my finger on anything in my present life that compares with the recess of my youth. We’d slam down our little lunches and run like nutjobs outside to let loose with that wild abandon so necessary for little kids.

            One game in particular stands out. It’s probably called a lot of different things depending on where you came from, but we termed it Wall Ball. You get a bunch of boys together and throw a tennis ball against a wall. I’d stop there if that was the whole enchilada, but this is a rich and wonderful game that teaches kids a lot about life.

            It’s a bit like dodge ball. There’s a bunch of lads milling about, jockeying to catch the ball as it ricochets off the wall. But here’s the thing. You never had to go for it. You could just stand there the entire time and never do a thing. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

            Here’s the thing. The only way to really participate was to try and catch the frigging ball. You catch it, then hurl it back. But what if you don’t catch it? What if you go full butterfingers and it slips out of your hands? Well, son, you best get moving, because anyone can pick it up and peg you, that is, until you run and touch the wall.

            So much psychology here, I love it.

            The setting creates its own roles, but rarely are they this pronounced. You’ve got the kid that slinks off to the side, not willing to risk getting his bollocks smacked. The two or three that are like little Jedi masters; the ball sticks to them, and even if it doesn’t, they’re faster and more savvy than all the rest of the little knuckleheads in the game.

            And then the rest. The 99%. Children that aren’t that keen on getting smacked, but know that the ostracism of sitting it out just isn’t worth it.

            A thousand dynamics play out in this game, but there’s one in particular. Every so often a kid would have the ball hit him in a failed attempt and it would be picked up by someone with a perfect shot. You’d see the victim’s shoulders slump and give in to his inevitable fate, eyes clinched down and biting his lip.

            But then—and I still remember this—the one with the shot would just go up and touch little boy biting lips on the shoulder, thus saving him from the pain.

            The whole point of the game completely circumvented by the compassion of some nine-year old to his fellow little classmate. All the onlookers would sigh and say “c’mon,” but we all admired it deep down. A noble sacrifice, considering the fact that the whole show could be a reenactment of The Lord of the Flies.

            We all want to be part of the game, but we all know it requires risks. I like the fact that there are stakes, but I also like the fact that in all the jousting for supremacy, there’s still some grace involved. On this day, the one where we celebrate capital G Grace, I thought I’d point that out.

            Grace to you. Happy Christmas and see you after.