The Things We Did for Fun

War. Such a despicable cause of death and suffering. Yet every boy emulated it in his play. We had chosen our sides. The battlefield was drawn. Ten young boys were ready to battle for the ultimate prize – bragging rights. The rules were simple, if you were hit, you were out. The team with the last man standing won. We gathered our bags of ammo and headed to the field. Large round hay bales provided cover when needed. We dashed, we dodged, we fired. We worked up a sweat as one by one people were out. Then the game came to an abrupt halt. D.J. took a bottle-rocket to the eye. As he laid on the ground with his face in his hands, writhing in pain, all I could hear was my mother’s voice in the back of my head saying, “It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”

It was a different time back then. As a whole, I guess we weren’t safety conscious as a society. Our parents were far from overprotective. Moms would warn us with a “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets hurt.” Dads would let us follow through with whatever lamebrain idea we conjured up, crack open a beer, and ask us, “You going to try that again?” In those days we accepted the challenge of eating ice cream cones from the bed of a pick-up truck doing fifty-five down the road while dad crushed his fifth beer behind the wheel. People who wore seat belts were social pariahs. I remember my mom turning out of a parking lot and my three-year-old sister flying out of the car. As kids growing up Gen-X, that was just normal. We never stopped to consider safety. On that fateful day, when D.J. lost his eye, and bottle-rocket wars became a thing of the past, we rode our bikes three miles uphill to get to our friend's house to be a part of that event. Nowadays, a kid would be reliant on a parent to get that far from home.

We created our own sport, that to us was a crusade not only to conquer by points, but the sheer ability to beat our opponents to the ground. A mix of hockey, soccer, and wrestling, we used our feet, ball bats, two-by-fours, and shovels to knock around a soccer ball and each other. We lined up like two armies on the field of battle. At the count of three, the fighting began. There was kicking and elbowing, swinging of sticks, tackling, and shoveling over a ball, trying to get it between the goalposts of the other team. Whoever had the most points when everyone quit, won. Needless to say, there were black eyes and broken noses to go along with busted up shins, pulled muscles, sprains, and other bumps and bruises. But to us kids, we felt like we won hard fought battles and those were our victory scars.

Bike tag was also a favorite of ours. It brought out the primitive hunter in us. With broomsticks as spears, and our friends on their bikes as prey, we would aim for the spokes. Whoever was thrown from their bike first was it next. Back then we had to prove we were tough, that we could take bumps and bruises like being thrown from a bike or getting cross-checked by a two-by-four. We had to prove it to ourselves, and we had to prove it to the person next to us. We were brutal with our teasing. We had to prove that you could take that too, but if you didn't want to get shot, you didn't step in front of the gun. So, we took our beatings and wore them as a badges of honor.

We tested our limits. That is, if we were even being mindful of our limits. The inner Olympian in each of us had to see who was the fastest, who was the strongest, who could jump the farthest. When I was around seven, maybe eight, I had these friends that lived in the sticks. Their backyard was a steep hill that backed up to the woods. The hill would flatten out behind the house, but on the side of the property there was, I’m guessing, an eight-foot drop-off onto the shooting range’s gravel parking lot. We used to take Big Wheels (plastic tricycles that sat low to the ground with plastic wheels, the front one bigger than the back two) up to the tree line and pedal as hard as we could, to gain as much speed as we could, to see who could jump the farthest. I wasn't there to witness it, but someone eventually fractured an ankle playing that game. Upon hearing the news, it was another case of hearing my mother’s voice: “It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”

Not everything had to do with stupidity and pain. I began writing at a young age because our imaginations created wild role-playing games of science fiction, fantasy, and action-adventure variety. We traveled to different realms and had powers to fight evil. We were space soldiers fighting aliens. We were soldiers on secret missions. We were knights sent to slay the dragon. After the sun set and we were in for the night, I would grab my notebook and write down our adventures down.

We weren’t without our toys, the Hot Wheels, and the action figures. We were a competitive bunch who played sports, which do get rowdy, but no one ever got hurt. During the summer we spent a lot of time at the city pool or Six Flags. We had our bikes. We rode them everywhere, whether it was two houses down or the next town over. We flirted with girls. We fished. We always found something to do and ninety-nine percent of the time it was outside.

It was a time when the streets were filled with laughter and play, but they were also filled with yelling, crying, and fighting. Now the streets seem to be empty. Society is more safety conscious these days and there is more indoor entertainment than when I was a kid. Growing up Gen-X was a time when advancements in entertainment, safety, and health science were evolving. I don’t know if growing up Gen-x was a better experience than any other generation’s. We all did the best with what we knew and what we had. I feel like I got to experience the best of both worlds between the Baby-Boomers and Gen-Z. I look back on it with fondness, and I guess that’s all that matters. But today, when my wife says, “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets hurt,” It’s not the kids she’s talking to.