Murder-ball

Murder-ball was a game we played in the alley between Buckingham Dr and Westminster Blvd. The object of game was obvious. Don't get murdered. Escaping death under a pile of kids with the ball cuddled in your arms, was the only way to win.

We used whatever ball we could find, usually a football. We'd hurled the ball up in the air and as it came down, like jump ball in basketball, we would leap to retrieve it but instead of batting it away to a teammate, we caught it. Our reward for catching the ball; premeditated murder. Someone was going to die, we planned it and we were all in. 

It was a silly game and upon refection, one question comes to mind. Why? Maybe our roughhousing was just a well needed muddy group hug. I have to admit that I was okay to participate in the pile on but to catch the ball and be at the bottom of the mud bath, no thanks. I wouldn't try to catch the ball. Are you kidding me, they'd have send out a search party to find me in the mud. I jumped on top and I hoped they wouldn't see what I was up to but they did. No football needed. Mud bath. This was an obvious infraction but the only flag on the field was a white one and it was dangling from my hand. Having no replay cameras, or refs, play continued. 

After playing for a while half-time was declared. Usually due to an injury or hunger. Luckily, the alley provided ample culinary choices. Just beyond the fence was a treasure trove of edible delights. 

The kids across the street had a nectarine tree and a plum tree. Across the alley from them, a huge cherry tree. And down the alley growing through fence, green beans. Now, instead of murder, it was unarmed robbery. Just a misdemeanor. We would fill our tee shirts up like a dirty cotton grocery bag, sit with our backs against the fence and pig out. Most people didn't care that we helped ourselves. Except the little old Italian green bean lady. I'm sure she is the one who helped those kids build their weapons of hockey destruction, aka, homemade hockey sticks. It occurred to me that maybe murder-ball was her way to get back at us kids. She was too old to play but her grandkids could. Maybe, she invented the game back in Italy and taught them the rules. Could she have secretly been the head coach, hiding behind grape leaves, calling plays from the back porch swing.

After filling our bellies it was game on again. We played for hours. Hockey, football, baseball and murder ball. All games interrupted by the same sound. A whistle. The same guy whistling. My Dad. We would have thanked God for the time we had together but instead of Amen it was "Awe Man" We would say our goodbyes and go to our houses, beat up and dirty. My mother would take one look at my dirty clothes and say the same words. "Awe man" Being found guilty by a jury on my peers (my parents) I was banished to my cell. A convicted murderer. It was comforting to know that I wasn't alone. 

This was just one of many fun games we played. We kids had ball or did we leave it in the alley again.