Not half an hour ago, we said our fond farewells to Papa as he and Grandma headed off to the Colorado Association of Realtors convention in Colorado Springs.

I think Jim might’ve been a bit worried about leaving us alone together… this morning/early afternoon were HORRIBLE times on the mini front. Fisher smacked Rhys around, Rhys was deliberately annoying to Fisher, both boys lied about their respective roles in the disharmony, Papa needed a beer with lunch, Mama tried and failed to hide in the studio…

So as soon as the giant Avalanche disappeared around the corner, I called the boys into the backyard.

"Who wants to play Stupidball?"

"I DO!" "Meeeee!"

Stupidball is roughly akin to Tegwar (The Exciting Game Without Any Rules). Fisher and I invented it one afternoon after I got very tired of him letting my flawless (hee) fastballs go whistling through his strike zone without so much as a token swing. Yesterday, it consisted of throwing the ball straight up in the air and trying to hit it when it comes down. And of course, when you miss, you have to spin around in a frenzy going "Who-o-o-a!" and fall flat on your back and kick your legs in the air like an expiring cockroach.

Today, it started off similarly, except with an adaptation for a third player: after the hitter makes contact, the third player rushes in, armed with a badminton racquet, and attempts to smack the ball before either of the other two players can get to it.

But alas, the (tennis) ball disappeared into a tangle of ungroomed rose bushes, and we couldn’t find it again. We did come up with a red bocce ball, so the game morphed into Stupidcroquet (hitting the ball with a T-ball bat, badminton racquet or other suitable implement). Then somehow we got to the crux of the game (probably shortly after Rhys said "You guys are too silly. I wanna play in the dirt pit." and abandoned Fisher and me to our worthwhile pursuits). This involved flinging bats onto the porch roof and watching them roll down. Of course, within five minutes, all three bats were stuck on the roof, so we had to switch to heaving soccer balls at them to try to knock them down again. Which didn’t work at all, though Fisher got a big kick out of bending over and hurling the ball backward between our legs to try to reach the roof.

So half an hour after Jim left, we had to abandon Stupidball for lack of sporting equipment. But that’s OK. It was a bad day; now it’s a good day. And I’m still chuckling over the mental picture of Fisher laughing so hard he had to put his head between his knees to keep from throwing up.

About Molly Newman

Writer, cook and trivia/spelling bee hostess, living it up in North Portland.
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1 Response to Stupidball

  1. Mimi says:

    I hope the CAR (is that what they call it? I’m a member of WAR so it makes sense. But then, CA is CAR so I’m all confused) convention was cool!

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