bicker-ball

Ahhh, summer. Lemonade stands, fireworks, road trips, picnics and .... bicker-ball?

That's what our neighbor, Rob, nicknamed my boys' pickup baseball games in our front yard. Poor Rob, relaxing quietly on his front porch after a hard day's work. His tranquility was often smashed by three rambunctious boys - and often a little girl - who tumbled out our front door for for the umpteenth game of baseball, which always turned into bicker-ball. I can hear their shrieking conversations ...

That's the base.
No, THIS is the base!
You're out!
No, I'm safe!
No you're NOT!!
She's on YOUR team!
No, she's not!
Don't hit it so far!
It's your turn to chase it!
No, yours!
And finally, "smack," goes a whiffle ball against someone's head.
OWWWWWWWW! MOM!!!!!
I'm telling!

One year a friend's cheek got smacked with a bat, requiring stitches. Those were intense, seemingly interminable years.

The yard is quiet now, the maple too big for ball games, and grass has grown over home plate.

But hearing one more game of bicker-ball wouldn't be so bad.