Small traumas and small breaks – this is how we played. Our shoes were dirty, but we didn’t stop playing. Dirt on our shoes didn’t mean anything to us, when we were playing. We were running so fast, that our yard seemed like the labyrinth of the houses, in which we actually lived. The whole picture looked like we ourselves created this picture. I now think that we could play this way forever. We might have been viewed by others as the crowd of running bodies with no exact lines – a mixture of movements… and then a loud sound… and the ball simply falls off the rim.
The noise of balls being beaten against the ground was never unpleasant. Our bodies were tall and lanky; in this constant running our bodies comprised nothing else but feet, hands and eyes. These were enough to play good, and the sound of our game created a nice rhythm. The girls were always watching our games, and when we turned our heads towards them, we felt so delightful, that it seemed we could fly.
The girls smiled, and it was the best expression of their approval – they liked how we were playing. We fell, and each muscle of our bodies could be seen. Our playground was too simple – just a metal hoop on the oak, but it was enough for us to experience the best emotions. The game was a revelation for us; it was a refuge, in which we were hiding in grief and sorrow.
Sonny Boy was my friend, and when his mother died, he could find his consolation only in playing – he was playing all day long, trying to forget his tragedy. We didn’t stop playing. Our bodies sweated, but the ball was still in our hands. We had a trouble when we hit the ball with an open palm, but we ran further, and almost glided along the open space. We did have traumas, we didn’t have much free time to rest, but the game was so fascinating, that we didn’t even realize what we could physically perform. Our bodies seemed to have no bones. We knew that playing was joy for us, and we knew it made us beautiful and brave, sometimes even dangerous.;