May Madness

Ah, spring. Better yet, ah spring evenings. The chatter of children next door, on their swings, on their trampoline. A couple of mugs of coffee—yes, decaf. Talk with the neighbors—gardening, wildlife, always the weather it seems.

Blueberries ripening, a trio of Gala apples developing, some peaches growing. The red—or reddish—new maple leaves, the tips of crape myrtles. Ligustrum in full bloom, coreopsis too, and the knockouts just past their fullest first flush. Ah, knockouts.

And, then, yesterday evening. I with my mug of coffee in hand, and five or six girls between I would think 6 and 12 on the trampoline with safety net next door. What a sight for a Whitmanesque moment. Like gazelles, pronging in the sweetly scented air? Oh, glorious spring, oh glorious frolic?

Uh, no.

Armed with brightly colored hopper balls and pool swim rings, our princess warriors were beating the daylights out of each other. I’m not talking a little slap of the wrist or jabs from the elbow. No, I’m talking rearing back and taking roundhouse swings that caught opponents full flush in the head, on a shoulder, in the back.

My personal favorite were attacks from the rear aimed at the back of knees, and with the target down, then boom to the head.

These shots were of the knock-you-off-your feet variety. I could hear blows land even from 40 yards away. Bam! Whump! Thwack! Holy, physical carnage, Batman! You may imagine the shouts, screams, shrieks—fever-pitched.

Pain dished out, pain received. Of course, some complaints, even some tears—oh, let the combatants speak for themselves. The refrain: You’re going to get hurt, and if you can’t take it, get out.

Remember, they’re on a trampoline, so extra oomph on some of the shots, up or down. Wham! What an uppercut.

Now if you’re thinking they’re soon exhausted, what, maybe 10, 15 minutes, well you’re horribly, terribly, brutally, excruciatingly wrong. No, no, an hour.

Yes, 60 minutes of nearly lethal head-spinning, bruising, vicious contact sport. Contact? No justice done with that word. And then I went inside for the evening. Thrash-O-Mania done?

Not for another half hour.

I’m telling you, should the zombie apocalypse come, that squad right there is the one I’m traveling with.

Hah—as if they’d have me.