Back When We Knew How To Play

Running around the city, I’ve seen a resurgence of playgrounds, built as much for parents as for kids, as they often include benches and viewing areas where adults can observe and monitor their child’s play.

But when I was a kid, parents didn’t take us to the playground. That was our turf. And like Lord of the Flies, it was in the playground that we learned to lead, follow, problem solve and survive. It was an early life lesson about “what happens at the playground stays at the playground”.

Far from its appearance as a carefree distraction, there was a process to my play. First I would do a ‘ride by’ on my bike, scanning for bullies in search of a potential victim. If the coast were clear, I would turn back and approach with a purpose, ditching my bike at the base of the swing set, keeping it close by for a quick getaway.

The masochistic metal chain swings were a combination of pleasure and pain. Jumping up into one of the ‘always just a bit too high’ saddles, I’d pump my legs ferociously, propelling myself as high as possible until the chain would go limp for a moment at the top of the arc, the feet of the swing set rocking right out of the ground. Bored, I’d stand on the seat and twist the chain as tightly as possible, causing skin pinches that would turn purple and bring tears to my eyes as I would let go and spin out of control, always thinking at the end of the process that the lame and limited pleasure was not worth the pain.

If I had a playmate, we’d head over to the see saw, where the goal was to push off the ground so hard your friend’s tailbone would slam to earth and bounce off the seat. The ultimate move was to jump off once you reached the bottom, sending your partner earthbound so severely you could hear their teeth slam together from the impact. Fun times!

Then there was the whirly merry-go-round thingie, with red metal bars. My hands were chronically loaded with red metal paint splinters from my death grip as bullies spun the carousel mercilessly until they got bored or until I went flying, whichever came first. My father, an ex-marine, taught me how to tuck and roll when I fell, which made me somewhat of a dismounting superstar.

To a little squirt like me, the monkey bars loomed like a mini Mount Everest waiting to be conquered, and nearly as dangerous as there was no soft matting or wood chips to cushion our fall. Our landing pad was a combination of loose gravel, rocks and broken glass; a great motivator for learning how to land on your feet, even after being suspended upside down like a mini Houdini trying to escape from the shirt that had pulled over my head.
 
Years ago, slides were made out of metal or rock, each offering their own dimension of danger. The metal would get so hot on summer afternoons that it wasn’t as much a ‘slide’ as it was a scramble and scream, as your skin would burn into the steaming metal acting as a brake while you frantically screamed and scrambled to the bottom.

The stone slides required us to bring props like cardboard boxes to the park, but more often than not the cardboard would catch on the way down, propelling you to an inevitable pebble pounding and spontaneous skin grafting, as kids sporting bum burns would wait in line with ripped up shreds of cardboard to do it all over again.

Ah yes, those were the good old days. And while my playtime today is a lot more passive, it is not nearly as much fun as it was back then; back when we really knew how to play.