Every kid watches the clock when the minute hand closes in on recess. Then the seconds as that final minute ticks down to twelve. I always felt cheated out of my most special times of the day if the bell didn’t strike at the exact moment the second hand struck the top of the circle. Ten, nine, eight…three, two, one, and….
The bell rang. The desk legs scraped the
tiled floor as we’d rise in unison and somehow kept our exterior cool, lining
up, and marching like the little army we were taught to be, bursting out into
the yard.
I remember a number of Pinecrest school playground moments: chasing balls and things like that. I remember once dropping flat on my stomach when I presumed (unseen) that someone was going to bean me with a ball from behind. There wasn’t. But there was a boy rushing me to lay me flat with a push (we were always pulling pranks like that), but when I dropped before he could, he tried to check himself and ended up on his face. Karma.
Larry McDowell and I had a fit one day, alpha male boy’s stuff, and during the recess soccer play, I purposely hooked his ankle with my foot, sending him spinning and landing on his face. I was thrilled when I saw his bloodied nose. Take that, I thought. But I knew I had to be on my guard. I knew he’d retaliate.
I remember playing basketball with Donald Rhodes, and Don always mimicking the Fonz from “Happy Days,” the apex of cool in the mid ‘70s. “Eh!” he’d say, hooking his thumbs out.
I remember recess always beginning and ending with a long peal of the bell. We’d run to the bats and balls set out at the ready. And we’d run back in to where we knew our places were, lined up by class, awaiting our instruction to enter the halls, always walking at a measured pace following the brass sheet tile lines to keep us orderly, until we came upon our class and had had to wait for a break in the girls walking the halls in the opposite direction, following the other gold seam.
It was like keeping to our lanes on a highway. I’m surprised that the leader did not have to signal his intent to turn.
I remember a number of Pinecrest school playground moments: chasing balls and things like that. I remember once dropping flat on my stomach when I presumed (unseen) that someone was going to bean me with a ball from behind. There wasn’t. But there was a boy rushing me to lay me flat with a push (we were always pulling pranks like that), but when I dropped before he could, he tried to check himself and ended up on his face. Karma.
Larry McDowell and I had a fit one day, alpha male boy’s stuff, and during the recess soccer play, I purposely hooked his ankle with my foot, sending him spinning and landing on his face. I was thrilled when I saw his bloodied nose. Take that, I thought. But I knew I had to be on my guard. I knew he’d retaliate.
I remember playing basketball with Donald Rhodes, and Don always mimicking the Fonz from “Happy Days,” the apex of cool in the mid ‘70s. “Eh!” he’d say, hooking his thumbs out.
I remember recess always beginning and ending with a long peal of the bell. We’d run to the bats and balls set out at the ready. And we’d run back in to where we knew our places were, lined up by class, awaiting our instruction to enter the halls, always walking at a measured pace following the brass sheet tile lines to keep us orderly, until we came upon our class and had had to wait for a break in the girls walking the halls in the opposite direction, following the other gold seam.
It was like keeping to our lanes on a highway. I’m surprised that the leader did not have to signal his intent to turn.
