Mine!

When we moved to Lilburn in 1989 we became members of the Hanarry West Swim and Racquet Club. We had no interest in tennis, but did want Ann and John to have access to a swimming pool and a recreation league swim team. Since our neighborhood did not have a pool, this was the closest alternative.

Our first season in the Hanarry West pool was the summer of 1990. John turned 6 that summer and Ann was 8.

One day when I was in the pool with the kids I brought a tennis ball with me. I said to Ann with a big smile on my face, “This tennis ball sure is fun. I really like this tennis ball. It’s a fine tennis ball. The best part about this tennis ball is that it’s all MINE!” After making similar remarks to John, the two of them looked at each other, and came after me and “my” tennis ball.

That was the genesis of the game called “Mine”. The game was quite simple. I would jump in the pool and declare some object mine. Ann and John would try to get it away from me with great vigor. It wasn’t a violent game, but it was extremely physical. There was a great deal of forceful pushing, pulling, prying, shoving, dunking, upending, wrestling, leaping, and general mayhem. The only thing that kept it from meeting the definition of “violent” was the lack of hitting, kicking, and scratching. Everything else was fair.

Each of us used all the strength, speed and guile we possessed. The game would last until I was totally worn out. Most games lasted an hour or more.

I don’t recall ever letting them win. If/when they got the object from me I wanted them to know that I’d done my very best and that they had actually accomplished something. In the process of playing this “game” they unintentionally learned most of the wrestling moves that I knew that could be used from a standing position. All three of us also got a great workout.

We started out in the shallow end of the pool because John was only six. Other kids kept their distance to avoid getting hurt. We tried to stay to one side or the other of the shallow end so other kids could have some space to play in. As the years passed and Ann and John got older we moved up the pool into deeper water. The violent nature of the game continued to keep people far away from us. As time passed I became less and less successful in keeping the object.

Occasionally one of us would get hurt unintentionally by an elbow to the head, or a knee to a soft place. We always stopped the game immediately to look after the injured party and to express heartfelt remorse. We weren’t trying to hurt each other intentionally, but by the very nature of the game we were guaranteed to get hurt anyway. We never got angry with each other. If one of us ever did get angry, it would have meant that we had gone too far.

Jean tells me that one time at the pool a father stopped to ask her how we got Ann to roughhouse so violently with her father. He was dismayed that his own daughter was such a prissy little girl. Jean told him that I had roughhoused with Ann all her life. It was as natural an activity for father and daughter as it was for father and son.

I am sure the kids learned something from the game, but I don’t feel much like pontificating about it at the moment. If I did it would probably be something about breaking traditional gender behavior, teaching competitive spirit, maintaining composure, bonding, or the pleasure of intense physical activity. Oh hell, it was fun. That’s all. It doesn’t have to be a deep meaningful learning experience.