“Ninety six, ninety seven, ninety eight,
ninety ninnnneeeee…ONE HUNDRED,” the deep voice penetrated 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 obtained a perfect, unobscured view of the tin coffee
can sitting in front of my Grandparents’ house.
Beams of light coming from the setting summer sun glinted off the metal
exterior, transforming the rusted can into a coveted treasure as silver beams
of light attacked unwary eyes. My ten
year old feet twitched at the sight of the gleaming beacon of victory. Resolved that this would be the year of
victory, I attempted to calm myself.
Quietly,
I muttered to myself, “Patience…patience”.
I did not need to make my way towards the can quite yet, not until my
adversary closed in on my hiding spot.
If I allowed my competitive nature to overcome reason and logic, I would
expose my location and compromise the entire game. As soon as I left the sanctuary of the bush,
I could not turn back. Years of
countless losses, while devastating to the morale of a child, had taught me to
wait for the perfect moment of opportunity.
Despite my desire to run towards the can with wild abandonment, securing
the coveted victory for me and my brothers, I knew better than to act on mere
inhibitions.
Content
to watch the game unfold until my window of opportunity, I allowed myself to
relax, sliding down into the moist dirt.
Using the brick foundation of the neighbor’s house as a backrest, I sat
on the cold ground, picking up handfuls of dirt, allowing the small grains to
run through my fingers. My Uncle D.J., my
opponent, walked calmly away from the can, attempting to lure me and my
brothers out of our hidden shelters with a false sense of security.
“Now,
I wonder where those kids could be,” my Uncle pondered aloud in a playful
singsong voice, taking great care to “look” teasingly under nearby cars and
behind mailboxes.
“Clever,
but not clever enough,” I muttered to myself with pride. In previous years, my Uncle’s feigned
confusion had managed to coax me out of numerous hiding places, ending in my
inevitable capture and ultimate loss. Years
of trial and error taught me the insincerity of my Uncle’s bewilderment, that
he forged this artificial perplexity.
His sole purpose, to make my brothers and I feel assured, shrewdly
coaxed us out of hiding on countless occasions.
Chuckling to myself, I sank deeper into the dirt, knowing this crafty
tactic meant the game had just begun.
Unfortunately,
as an amateur at the game, my youngest brother took my Uncle’s bait, stumbling
out from behind a tall oak tree, scampering innocently towards the can. Anticipating this maneuver, my Uncle spun
around and darted towards the faltering toddler. Screaming my little brother tried to turn his
tiny legs faster, hurrying to kick the can before being imprisoned by my
Uncle’s outstretched arms. Sighing in
exasperation, knowing from my own past experience that his efforts were futile,
I could only watch the sad spectacle unfold.
I could not risk my own safety, and the outcome of the game, to attempt
to reverse my little brother’s naivety. As expected, my Uncle quickly scooped up the
giddy, laughing toddler, placing him in the “jail” located by the front steps. I shook my head in disgust; my younger
brother’s foolishness forced our team to now play a man down, yet he could not
care less. His laughs felt like
fingernails running against a chalkboard, evoking within me emotions of
irritation and annoyance with every high pitched squeal. 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.
Angry,
questions spun inside my mind: “Does he
not understand the importance of this game?!”
“How could he be so naïve?!” Every
summer, my family and I traveled 17 hours to Dayton, Ohio to visit our extended
family. The sleepy inhabitants preferred
to waste away the long summer days inside houses or restaurants, drinking in
the cool, conditioned air, rarely venturing out into the humid, muggy outdoors. Subjected to endless hours of reading,
television, card games, and dull adult conversations, my brothers and I
anticipated the nights my Uncle D.J. came to visit. Still “young”, meaning he still retained a
full head of hair and willingly played outdoors with us, my Uncle D.J. allowed
us to escape the prison of the “grown-up” table and seek true summer adventure
in the approaching evening air. Each
summer my brothers and I anxiously awaited the annual game of Kick the Can
played against my Uncle D.J. Despite
our enthusiasm and number advantage, Uncle D.J. always won. Somehow, my
brothers and I never reached the tin coffee can in time to secure victory. Right before our feet touched the dented
metal can, my Uncle thwarted our efforts, remaining the victor for another
year. But this summer, I determined to
change the outcome of the game; this year, I entered the game with a school
year of experience and training on my side.
Rather than playing on the swings with my friends, I dedicated the
previous school year’s recesses to playing hide and seek with a group of
disorderly 4th grade 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. He would not win again, not without a
fight.
As
my Uncle searched the houses on the opposite side of the street, I breathed
freely and easily. The space between my
Uncle and the can offered just enough room to tempt me into leaving the
bush. I squeezed my eyes shut,
envisioning the possible outcomes of a sprint towards the can. As soon as I attempted to exit the bush, the
rustling leaves would alert the attuned ears of my Uncle. By the time I scrambled to my feet, my Uncle
would be in perfect position to intercept me on my mad dash to the can. Shaking my head, I abandoned the idea. It would do no good to risk my safety to kick
the can now, besides, if I did manage to kick the can, it would only release my
little brother from jail. After
re-hiding, he would simply repeat his earlier performance and put us back into
the same situation. I could do nothing but
wait.
I
grabbed a stick off the ground and began tracing shapes in the loose dirt. Out of the line of my Uncle’s vision, I did
not anticipate my Uncle uncovering the hiding sport anytime soon. Besides, I could easily keep an eye on the
figure of my Uncle as he looked under steps and porches of the neighboring
houses while I drew in the dirt. Suddenly,
the branches beside me began to snap, sounding off like miniature firecrackers. Caught off guard, I quickly scrambled into a
crouching position, dropping my stick and beginning to scope out new possible
hiding spots. As I prepared to exit out
the front of the bush and begin a mad dash to the can, a firm hand pushed me
down and covered my mouth, muffling the scream rising in my throat. Jerking my head around to identify my captor,
I felt relief, and then infuriation, when saw my older brother’s mocking face
peering back at me in the fading summer light.
Prying his hand off my mouth with my long fingernails, I punched him in
the arm with indignation.
“Are you stupid?!” I asked in a harsh whisper,
appalled that he did not understand the gravity of the game.
Rubbing
his now lacerated hand, my brother shrugged his shoulders. Finding
the small cuts forgivable, my brother wiped off his sweaty hands in the
dirt. “Someone had to run sometime. Otherwise the game would be boring,” he
explained with an audaciously arrogant smirk.
Infuriated at his impatience, not to mention
his willingness to sacrifice my hiding spot for his own amusement, I pushed him
off balance, sending him sprawling into the dirt. His smile vanished as he settled in a cloud
of dirt. From the ground he kicked my
legs out from under me, sending shearing pain up my shins as I landed beside
him on the ground. Grabbing a handful of
dirt, I threw the grit at his face, landing some of the particles in his
mouth. As he sputtered, trying to rid
his mouth of the taste of dirt, I laughed at my own cunning. Satisfied, I turned my gaze back to the can;
however, panic overcame my feelings of pride.
I never saw the can’s silvery glint, because through the branches of the
bush, my Uncle’s eyes peered back at me!
Following the sounds of our rustling and fighting, my Uncle had found my
hidden bush.
Knowing
I had only one option, I dove out of the bush and began to run, leaving my
brother to fend for himself. I heard my
brother cry out in defeat. I looked back long enough to see my Uncle pulling
my brother out from behind the seat of his pants. A typically funny scene filled me with
anxiety, knowing my Uncle would soon be in pursuit of me. Only four houses stood between me and the can;
I still had a chance to win.
“Run!
Run, Erin, Run!” My brother’s frantic voice
alerted me of the gaining danger, but I could already sense my Uncle fast
approaching without his desperate warning.
I could hear the sound of my Uncle’s tennis shoes slapping the cobbled
sidewalk. I urged my legs to turn
faster, allowing my bare feet to barely skim the grass before lifting them up
once again. Glowing fireflies scattered
as my flying feet uprooted the tiny creatures from the grass, illuminating the
evening 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.
I gulped at the humid air, trying to get enough breath for one final
sprint. One house to go. My Uncle, only a few steps behind me, took one
stride for every four steps that I ran.
I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to channel all my energy 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, lessening the
distance between us. Two steps. I imagined the sound of the metal can
bouncing off my foot, filling the neighborhood with clanging chaos, the sound
of victory. One step. One step and I
would win. I reared my leg back,
preparing to send the tin can flying.
Sadly, this hesitation was all the time my Uncle needed to grab the back
of my T-shirt and pull me back with a forceful lurch.
My
foot never touched the tin can. Like
every other summer, my Uncle remained the champion of Kick the Can. Hearing the
shouts of dismay from my brothers, my Grandma called us into the house for ice
cream. My brothers quickly ran ahead,
clearly forgetting our 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.
“You
almost had it,” my Uncle laughed, patting me on the back lightheartedly.
I
glared at him with resentment and anger.
“Almost,” I mimicked in a scornful voice, hating the way the syllables
rolled off my tongue.
My
Uncle tilted his head, looking at me with a puzzled expression. “So it’s my fault you lost? I should have just let you kick the can?”
“YES!”
I shouted. Any other adult would have
let me win! Why did my Uncle feel the
sick desire to subject my brothers and I to unfair games in which he would always
prove the victor?
Unaffected
by my retort, my Uncle scratched his ear, a characteristic sign of
contemplation. In a calm voice he
replied, “Really?”
At
first, I wanted to shout, “YES!” I
REALLY wanted to win, I REALLY wished he would have let me. But the sound of this reply reverberating in
my head filled me with unease. I
resented the fact that my grandparents always let me win at board games; while
at first, I enjoyed the certain victory, overtime, the assured success left me
hollow and unfulfilled. I looked up at
my Uncle, checking to see if this last question was some sort of test, some
adult trick to teach me some elaborate lesson about acting “mature”. But my Uncle was not looking at me with an
expectant sneer; instead, he gazed thoughtfully into the distance, tossing the
can from one hand to the other. Did I
want another adult to treat me like a child, to let me win without earning
victory? The prideful part of my heart
screamed “Yes!”. However, a second voice,
deep within the confines of my mind whispered a resolute “No.” As I blocked out the voice screaming “Yes”,
the second grew stronger, louder.
Against my better judgment, I turned to my Uncle and shook my head,
looking at dirt-caked feet with feigned interest.
Even
though he had appeared to be surveying the neighborhood, my Uncle immediately
turned to face me as I shook my head.
Daring to meet his gaze, I lifted my eyes from my feet and searched his
face. I began to notice how exhausted my
Uncle appeared. Sweat glistened on his forehead;
his shoulders rose and fell as he attempted to steady his ragged breathing. Extending the can out to me, he smiled and quietly
said, “Well played”.
I
took the can from him, knowing that even though I failed to secure victory, 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 his book. As my uncle held the door open for me, I
clung to the can, skipping up the cement steps, knowing I had entered a new
phase of maturity.
As
my Grandma scooped a large spoon of vanilla ice cream into a paper bowel, she
looked at me curiously. “How did the
game go?” Her delicate tone revealed that my brothers already disclosed the
outcome of the game. Since I was known
to have a short temper and competitive spirit, my Grandma approached the
subject with caution and sympathy.
Giving
my Grandma a big hug and kiss on the cheek, I replied, “Fine.” Bewildered, my Grandma seized my shoulders
and held me at arm’s length, examining my face for signs of a coming
tantrum. Smiling, I turned my head to my
Uncle. Winking, he grabbed his own bowl
of ice cream and exited the kitchen, leaving me alone with my Grandma to retell
the whole adventure.
From
Candide, futilely wandering the Earth in search of an evasive happy ending, to
Connie, a young woman transformed from a state of blessed naivety to a state of
painful acknowledgement of reality in a single afternoon, the majority of the
characters from our texts this semester “came-of-age” as the result of
traumatic or distressing life events.
Death, heartache, racism, prejudice, poverty: these themes consistently
filled the pages of our texts, defining the “coming-of-age” experience as a
process marred by sadness and pain. I
don’t consider myself a particularly optimistic individual; in fact, some days
I can be the most pessimistic, cynical human being to ever grace this
Earth. However, I have reached a point
in my life where I no longer wish to dwell on memories which evoke negative
emotions. Heartbreaking events have
occurred during my lifetime: the passing away of my Grandfather, the death of a
close childhood friend, betrayal by supposed friends, disappoint from failed
goals or shattered expectations, saying goodbye to family, and watching
friendships slip away. Undoubtedly, the
tears shed as a result of these events reflected the painful “coming-of-age”
process, from the pain of these situations I undeniably grew and matured, yet I
don’t want these experiences to define my life’s story. I don’t want people to define my life, my
growth, as a serious of unfortunate events.
I don’t want to be another Candide, wallowing in self-pity, or another
character of Hemingway’s distressing iceberg narratives; instead, I want my “coming-of-age”
story to bring smiles and laughter.
Therefore,
I selected this memory from my childhood as a pivotal “coming-of-age”
moment. To an outsider, this story may
seem pointless, merely a rambling of a childhood recollection retaining no true
value; however, for me, this memory provides an example of a positive
“coming-of-age” experience that the literary world lacks. In my opinion, a
“coming-of-age” experience does not need to impress a reader; there are no
points awarded based on the degree of catastrophe experienced in the
story. Instead, the value of a
“coming-of-age” experience depends only on character who is
“coming-of-age”. So with this final
story, this “coming-of-age” finale, I hope to instill in readers a sense of
hope. Hope that not every
“coming-of-age” experience involves heartache and tears, hope that smiles and
laughter can shape a person’s character just as much anguish, hope that a
person can reflect on life experiences with happiness and joy rather than
regret and sorrow.
