The Longest Yard, Chesapeake, VA
In the early seventies, when I got holes on the knees of my blue jeans my mom would iron bologna slice-sized denim patches over the offending gap, and I’d be good to fight, or play, another day. At thirteen function trumped fashion.
One morning my patches were damp and the deepest of blue from crawling across the front yard with a yardstick after a rainstorm. Free time and a curious mind often beget questionable undertakings. But I was determined to know the length and width of our yard. It was the site of countless pick up football games, two on two whiffle ball battles and the infrequent, yet salacious game of freeze tag — especially when the cute girls next door chose to play.
Did I mention I was thirteen?
My foray in the world of surveying took about four attempts and ten minutes. It was easy to lose count. Place yardstick on the ground. Mark the end of yardstick with finger. Then, then slide yardstick to the other end. Count. Repeat. Over and over.
Fifty-five yards, 14 inches long by exactly 22 yards wide. A healthy sized plot of suburbia.
Mission accomplished, just because.
These dimensions did come in handy during those many football games with school mates and neighbors. We played tackle, both offense and defense resulting in the occasional dislocated finger, bloody ear and torn jeans. With these calculations, we managed to transform the game from merely two complete passes equal a first down to carefully placed pinecones marking first down on our half-sized NFL gridiron. Garden hoses became goal lines. Ordinary boys became all stars.
In one season, I likely rushed for over 5,000 yards, completed 200 touchdown passes and sacked the quarterback more than a handful of times. During timeouts, we’d kneel in front of the spicket slurping lukewarm water as it gushed out. The remainder made its way onto jerseys of favorite players and sleeveless sweatshirts. Old cold days, my mom served hot chocolate.
Darkness or dinner marked the end of a game, never fatigue or algebra homework. Our seasons coincided with football schedules. In a few years, we tossed the patched jeans, hung up the Converses and retired. Team members learning how to drive was likely a key culprit. We made our way in faded Fords or VW beetles that barked and sputtered to other activities, job commitments and to spend time with girlfriends who once played freeze tag.
My mom has since moved from the house with the big yard. Recently, I drove passed knowing full well the chance of a football game being played in the front yard was slim to none. Competition between young teenage boys often place in front on 50-inch television screens with controllers at the ready.
I parked my car what would have been the twenty-yard line — and still is for that matter. I’m relieved the yard is still in good condition and intact. No bushes or trees were planted on the field of battle. I took a few seconds to reminisce about the glory days. However, the yard does look smaller than I remember.
Hmm. Maybe I should measure.