I love this. The freedom and spontaneity of being a kid at play.

Growing up where and when I did, outdoor play was the mother of invention. Television was not really an indoor option, not yet considered a sitter. Besides, it sucked. It was black and white programming in the sixties. Nobody had color TV because it didn’t exist.

That’s a lie. It existed, but not affordable on our block. We finally scored color because my Dad traded a car engine for one. That’s what he said anyway. It was a console color TV to boot. I’m guessing it was a nice engine. Good work, Dad.

Therefore, outdoors was the parental destination assignment for all of us.

“Out…out…out of the house. Now!”

Time to play.

Don’t know if these four boys had parents. Or houses. Doesn’t matter. Their pick-up game? Soccer.

Ok, football. Whatever.

Never played and not much of a fan, but I get it. I know they score goals. No hands and all that. I respect the athleticism required for Premier League or World Cup. I also understand that to be an elite, World Cup player you must master the skill of rolling around on the ground, grabbing your leg as if someone capped you with a .45 handgun until suddenly, no one cares.  That’s a skill hard earned.

Okay, I’ll drop it.

Despite my ignorance regarding the beautiful game of faking injuries, it’s clear that most of the world considers football as the game to play, watch, and in the case of England, organize lethal riots. Who am I to criticize?

I give you nothing on football. What I will give you is the long-standing joy of pick-up ball and that’s what I see here. These four Liberian lads have no pitch, no uniforms, no shoes, no coach. Hell, they don’t even have a proper football. Yet here they are having a go on a sweltering hot African afternoon.  A pick-up contest with a ball made from sap stolen from a nearby rubber tree. Hard core play time in my book.

That’s a broken backboard in the left corner. No matter. These boys don’t play games involving arms and hands. And check out those potholes. I would blow an ankle trying to walk across this nightmare. Yet here they are, busting out a two-on-two.

I’m guessing they’re 10 maybe 12-years-old? The big kid a bit older. I took this shot with a telephoto lens from across the street so it’s a bit grainy. No photo prize here. Quality is not the point. I love this photo because of what it sparks in me to share with you.

And back in the day, our go-to pick-up game was basketball.

At 10-years-old, most of us had a ball and some had a proper basket hung in front of a garage or atop a pole planted on the side of a driveway. None of us had the perfect court, except Gonzalez, but that court happened later in life. We used his court for night ball because his dad installed a light. Good work, Alfred.

The magic of pick-up ball was the concept. Games just happened. No phones. No text messages. No plan.

Our transportation was the bicycle and the bicycle of choice was the Schwinn Stingray. Chopper handlebars, banana seat, slick back tire, sissy bar. The Stingray was a bad-ass machine and very sorry if you had last generation’s Schwinn Cruiser instead of the Stingray. Mainly because it was very hard to pop a wheelie with a Cruiser. I had a Stingray. Good work, Mom.

It would usually begin with a one-on-one game at someone’s home driveway. Sometimes it would remain just that: one-on-one, which was fine, but that’s not a pick-up game. That’s uncontrolled warfare. The magic happened when, by providence, another Stingray pulled up, then another and eventually, several. If we were an uneven number, someone sat out, usually the kid with the shitty bike. We used the favorite ball of the group, as the balls varied in popularity. Usually, if it bounced, we were good.

Games went to 10, sometimes 20, points. Each basket was worth one point, usually with “winners out,” meaning if you scored, you kept the ball. Helped you focus a bit on defense. These games went on for hours, kids coming and going, parents driving by screaming at some hapless child with a shitty bike. No reason to leave except for broken bones and bloody fingers, and even then…

That’s what I see here. Not football, just a youthful spirit to be at play. See the foot bandage? He doesn’t care. Think of those eight bare feet on the scruffy concrete slab. Makes my feet sweat in fear. They don’t care.

Imagine the heat. This contest is under a mid-day, equatorial sun with the humidity equal to a Swedish sauna.  Sorry boys, no Gatorade today. No electrolytes. No water fountains. Just concrete. And a rubber sap ball. And heat. They don’t care.

If you pay attention, you know pick-up ball is a sight found everywhere. In some countries, it’s a bit warped, as in Pakistan, where the pick-up game is cricket. Upon my arrival in Islamabad one year, I looked it up and yes, cricket is officially a sport. Don’t get me started.

Again, it’s not the game. It’s the youth inside you and the coolness of spontaneity. That’s what I see here. Put kids together with a ball of some sort and you will have a game. Few rules, call your own fouls (sometimes), sort it out, let ‘er whistle. We played in the rain, in the snow, in the dark.

Except at Alfred’s house.

If you see that here and it makes sense to you, I propose it’s not a stretch to remember those days and apply the same spirit to pretty much everything. I’m suggesting that I, and maybe all of us, could use a few more pick-up games during the day.

Give yourself permission. Let ‘er whistle.