Only a Guy in His Twenties . . .

Last night I picked Andrew up from youth group. I arrived, as usual, a few minutes early, and waited in the courtyard of the by-now-familiar church and school, hugging my sweater tightly around me, surprised at how cold the evening had become. I could hear the quiet murmer of voices from the various classrooms where the children and their leaders had divided into small groups. The room directly in front of me had a group of about six guys who looked a couple years older than Andrew.

Their conversation was led by a guy about my age, tall and dark and a little on the too-skinny side. I watched the boys as they listened to him, sometimes laughing at a comment, sometimes looking serious and adding a thought of their own. Eventually the group bowed their heads to pray, and even though I couldn't hear what they were saying, I felt like I was eves-dropping and wandered away.

The doors to the gymnasium were wide open, and I stepped inside to get out of the cool sea-breeze. It wasn't long before children dismissed from their Bible study groups began crowding through the doors. Andrew saw me and waved as he ran into the gym, but the look on his face was clearly not an "I'm ready to go home" sort of look. I was in no hurry so I let him join the others.

A couple seconds later, I recognized the leader of the group I had seen through the window. He saw me - an unfamiliar adult face at a church usually elicits a friendly response - and offered his hand, "Hi, I'm David." I shook his hand and introduced myself.

He smiled politely enough, but then quickly turned to herd children. From a closet he pulled a tub filled with hockey sticks and began handing them out left and right - red sticks to the girls; blue to the boys. There was, apparently, no limit to team size. Everyone got a stick. And everyone was herded to the gym floor and set loose on the basketball court to chase a tiny rubber ball.

All was soon chaos. The men - there were about five of them, all in their early twenties - were on the girls' team, and playing far more aggressively than most of their younger teammates. The boys were screaming and diving after the little ball, swinging hockey sticks haphazardly. It was only a matter of minutes before the first injuries, of course, but they were not fatal injuries and the game continued.

I stood against the wall, trying not to get trampled by the stampede that followed whenever the ball got too close to me. "Only a twenty three year old guy would think this was a good idea," I thought, but then found myself laughing at the chaos and wishing I could join the game.

There were a significant number of injuries, and a few spilled tears, but the cuts and bruises, I knew, would become battle-scars the next day, and many of the children who never came anywhere near getting a swing at the ball would remember the game forever. I watched the game for about half an hour before dragging a reluctant Andrew off the court and on home. If it hadn't been a school night, I just might have let him play all evening. And if I'd had shoes on I think I would've joined in . . .