Kick The Can

“Ninety six, ninety seven, ninety eight, ninety ninnnneeeee…ONE HUNDRED,” the voice pierced the otherwise tranquil air of the neighborhood, alerting my brothers and I that the game had begun.  Hidden behind a flowering bush five houses away, I had a perfect view of the silver tin can in front of my Grandparents’ house, glinting in the fading summer light.  There was no need to make my way towards the can quite yet, not until the enemy began to uncover our hiding spots.  Content to watch the game unfold, I sat down in the moist dirt, using the brick foundation of the neighbor’s house as a backrest.  My Uncle D.J., the enemy, walked calmly away from the can, attempting to lure us out of our hidden sanctuaries.  An amateur at the game, my youngest brother took this bait, stumbling out from behind a tall oak tree in pursuit of the can.  Anticipating this maneuver, my Uncle spun around and began striding towards the faltering toddler.  Screaming my little brother tried to turn his tiny legs faster, attempting to make contact with the can before being caught.  I sighed in exasperation, knowing from my own past experience that his efforts were futile.  As expected, my Uncle scooped up the giddy, laughing toddler, and placed him on the front steps, also known as “jail”.  I shook my head in disgust; our team was now a man down and my little baby brother could not care less.  He had just deserted his fellow soldiers, his own flesh and blood, leaving my older brother and I to fight this battle a man down.

Every summer, my family traveled 17 hours back to Ohio to visit our extended family. Every summer my brothers and I played Kick the Can with my Uncle D.J.   Every summer we lost.   But this summer was going to be different; this year, I had experience and training on my side.  I had spent the school year training for this battle.  Rather than playing on the swings with my friends, I had dedicated recesses to playing hide and seek with the boys, perfecting my ability hide in cramped corners and run without sound.  Resolved that training would not be in vain, I centered my focus, zoning in on the metal can, keeping my Uncle’s retreating figure in my peripherals.

As my Uncle searched the houses down the street, I breathed freely and easily.  It would do no good to risk my safety to kick the can now, only getting my little brother out of jail.  He would simply repeat his earlier performance and cost us the entire game.  There was nothing to do but wait.  Suddenly, the branches beside me began to snap, sounding off like firecrackers.  I quickly scrambled into a crouching position, scoping out new possible hiding spots and preparing to run, when a firm hand pushed me down and covered my mouth, muffling my screams.  Jerking my head around to identify my captor, I was relieved, and then infuriated, to see my older brother’s mocking face peering back at me in the fading light.  Prying his hand off my mouth, I punched him in the arm.  “Are you stupid?!” I asked in a harsh whisper, appalled that he did not understand the gravity of the game.  Laughing my brother shrugged his shoulders, “Someone had to run sometime.  Otherwise the game would be boring.”  Infuriated at his impatience and willingness to sacrifice my hiding spot for his own amusement, I pushed him off balance, sending him sprawling into the dirt.  As I laughed at my own cunning, I turned my gaze back to the can; however, I never saw the can’s silvery glint, because standing right in front of me was the imposing figure of my Uncle!  He had followed the sounds of rustling and fighting to our hidden bush.  

Knowing there was only one thing left to do, I dove out of the bush and began to run.  I heard my brother yell out in defeat.   I looked around once, long enough to see my Uncle pull my brother out from behind the push by his leg.  I was only four houses away from the can; I still had a chance to win.  “Run! Run, Erin, Run!”  My brother’s voice alerted me of the gaining danger, but I already knew that my Uncle was fast approaching.  I could hear the sound of his tennis shoes slapping the cobbled sidewalk.  I urged my legs to turn faster, allowing my bare feet to barely skim the grass before lifting again.  Glowing fireflies scattered as my flying feet uprooted them from the grass, illuminating the evening sky in a fountain of sparks.  Three houses to go.    I could feel my Uncle closing in; my lungs began to burn, my breath came in short, painful spurts.  Two houses to go.  I could hear my Uncle breathing heavily, his footsteps thundering as he grew closer and closer.  I gulped at the humid air, trying to get enough breath for one final sprint.  One house to go.  My Uncle was only a few steps behind me, taking one stride for every four steps that I ran.  I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to transfer all my mind power to one final burst of speed.  My heart felt as though it would explode with every step, my feet screamed out in agony, begging me to stop running.  Five steps…four steps…three steps…I could sense my Uncle’s arm stretching out into the lessening gap between us.  Two steps.   I imagined the sound of the metal can bouncing off my foot, filling the neighborhood with clanging chaos and the sound of victory.  One step. One step and I was there, I would win.  I reared my leg back, preparing to send the tin can flying, but this hesitation was all the time my Uncle needed to grab the back of my T-shirt and pull me back. 

My foot never touched the tin can.  We never won.  Like every other summer, my Uncle remained the champion of Kick the Can.  As my Grandma called us into the house for some ice cream, my brothers quickly ran ahead, easily forgetting the recent loss.  I lagged behind, kicking tufts of grass, angrily attempting to regain my breath.  Picking up the untouched can, my Uncle fell in step next to me, walking with me to the front door of the house.  I never wanted him to let me win, yet I had not wanted to lose either.  Confused, I reluctantly looked up at him.   Sweat glistened on his forehead; his shoulders rose and fell as he steadied his breathing.  Extending the can out to me, he smiled and said, “Well played”.  I took the can from him, knowing that even though I did not win the game, I had challenged my Uncle to an unprecedented game of Kick the Can.  I had made winning difficult for him; a feat considered near victory in my book. I grabbed the can and skipped up the cement steps, knowing there was always next year.