Playing Hard

I grew up working.  Ask anyone.  Well, maybe anyone other than my dad. 

 

Chores at home; push the mower, edge and water the lawn, pull weeds, water the garden, feed the dog, wash the dishes, dig holes, fix fences.

 

Up at 5 am; roll over a hundred papers, on rainy days put them all in plastic bags too, pedal the bike over much of town throwing them onto porches, well most of them at least, then back out evenings and weekends to collect.

 

After school, more work; scrubbing floors and washing bowls and pans at the bakery, folding towels and shirts at the dry cleaners, pushing a broom and carrying out the trash at the local mechanics.

 

And, truth be told, though I am sure some Vandermolen somewhere will swear I whined and moaned about it, I really kind of enjoyed using a two man saw to cut up trees, glazing new window glass into frames, setting fence posts, and such. 

 

But, and maybe it is cause I worked so much….when I got a chance to play….I played hard.  Not saying I was special at all, heck, both my brothers worked just as hard, just as much, and played with a passion too.

 

 

 

Used to play capture the flag in scouts.  Not your everyday “your team has that half of the football field, our team has this half” kind.  Nope, real, serious, capture the flag.

 

It usually started around 7:30 at night, and it often was well after 2 am before a flag was captured.  Sometimes the “wide rangers” didn’t even figure out the game was over until almost dawn.  We would all wear dark clothes, and dark knit caps.  Our version of camo back in the day, long before it was “in” to wear.  Which really didn‘t matter much cause we couldn‘t have afforded camo back then if even if it had been stylish.

 

Didn’t matter what the temperature was, 60, 70, 80….whatever. 

 

Standard “battle dress” was long dark sleeves, black pants, and stocking caps, most often with the face part pulled down.  Dark of the moon were the best nights.  Dark of the moon and dark clothes and unless the other team just happened to be downwind, they didn’t have a chance to find us.

 

See, we played big.  Usually we would find a valley, preferably with a river running through the middle.  The river was “No-man’s land”.  Everything as far back and wide as one team wanted to defend on one side of the river was theirs, everything on the other side was ours.  The game always began with a team huddle on each side.  The mission brief usually went something like this:

 

“Bob, you, Dave, and Warren as soon as the game starts, you all head back over the ridge into the next valley, north a mile or two, cross the river in three spots.  Make sure you’re at least a quarter mile apart when you do; go back the far side a couple-three ridges, then come on south a mile or so and start angling back towards the river looking for their flag.”

 

“John, Bill, Harry, same thing, only you guys start out south.”

 

“Rest of you, sneak across if you can, or just fake like you’re gonna.  Keep them watching this away.  Nobody guards our flag.  If no one is standing by it, they‘ll never find it.”

 

 

 

Yep, we thought in terms of square miles, not acres.  Area so big it was a miracle anyone ever found the other team’s flag.  Not to mention no one ever fell off a cliff, or ended up on a road in the next county.  Heck, we never even had to call out the Civil Air Patrol.  Downright amazing all things considered

 

 

 

I got lucky one time when I was about 15.  I found the other team‘s flag.  Still got the scar to prove it.

 

That night after a two or three ridgeline sneak, I spotted a place that was obviously the opposition’s “jail“.  Right next to a big old tree there was a whole bunch of my teammates dancing around making a real racket trying to draw attention.  You see, we all knew that in the size area we played, the flag was just naturally going to be hard to find, and most often, the opposition hid it close to the jail.  That way one guy could guard both.

 

So I settled in to watch.  After a bit the guard just couldn’t help but go check on the flag, so he headed over to a stump and reached down between a couple branches.  After assuring himself that it was still there, he headed back to watch the prisoners. 

 

I sneaked in slow and quiet. 

 

Got up close and grabbed the flag and lit out.  Was a grand thing it was, the flag had been hid up on a hillside, up high close to the ridge.  It was downhill all the way to no-man’s land.  It was a flat out sprint to get back across to our side.

 

Well that jail guard up and starts yelling that “someone’s got the flag, someone’s got the flag” and he gave chase.  There wasn’t a moon that night.  Plenty of stars that you could see shapes and shadows, but not enough to really tell where the ground was.  Some steps were pretty jarring headed down that hill.  

 

My feet fairly flew through the knee high grass, I was free, and out front, racing away from the guard and the others trying to close in from the sides, but too far away to make it.  Yep I was feeling home free, racing downhill so fast that my feet were wind milling; they almost couldn’t keep up with my body….until I met that tee-post.

 

It was painted dark.  There wasn't another tee-post in sight.  Just rooted there, kinda off from the herd you might say. 

 

Never saw it.

 

To this day can’t understand why the heck it was out in the middle of that field all by itself.

 

Top edge of that tee-post was just about bottom of the sternum high on me.  Thankfully, I took that thing just off-center.  Sliced right through the coat I was wearing; though my flannel shirt; and undershirt too.

 

Laid open a rib on my left side it did.

 

Yep, that tee post sure enough took its best shot at me.

 

Now I ain’t ashamed to say that collision hurt a bit.  That tee-post was tough.  It brought it’s “a-game” to the fight I tell you what. 

 

And I ain’t ashamed to say that I barely won that fight. 

 

But I did.

 

I know what you’re thinking; “He tore up his clothes ripped open his hide, and still thinks he won?”

 

Indeed I do.

 

You see, as bad as it hurt, I got back up and crossed the creek with that flag in my right hand.  

 

That tee post….well, it never got up again. 

 

Nope, it just lay there, bent flat down to the ground and kind of form fitted to every rise and fall of the field.

 

And heck, by that age, I knew for certain that hide heals.

 

I only really have one regret from that night, I didn’t get to keep the flag as a souvenir.  Nope; I had to use it as a bandage to staunch the flow of blood.

 

© 2013 M. Vandermolen All rights Reserved