Games, by Phillip Hoyle

As a kid I never much liked games of competition, but
I did like games of simulation. The former were based on beating
others—winning. My early aversion arose most likely from my lack of physical
strength and coordination combined with my weak skills in strategizing. If I
ran a race, I simply ran. The problem was that I ran too slowly. I couldn’t
throw balls far or fast and the balls rarely showed up where I thought I was
throwing them. At the shooting range I couldn’t see very well even though I had
no idea of that. Then when I got corrective lenses I never could figure out how
to compensate. I had a hard time concentrating on activities that didn’t
capture my imagination.
I avoided football and baseball. I was attracted to
basketball, but I wasn’t even a good basketball player. I wasn’t aggressive
enough and didn’t care to be better than the other guys. But growing up I did
like games like War, Cops and Robbers, and my favorite, Cowboys and Indians. I
probably liked the costuming, props, and improvisatory acting. I was especially
repelled by party games—games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, or dropping
clothes pins into milk bottles. I could play cards: War, Canasta, Gin Rummy, Pinochle,
Poker, and Pitch, but I abhorred spin the bottle. I wasn’t interested to kiss
anyone (well until 10th grade when I learned to kiss Buddy).
I started working in churches fulltime in 1970 at the
outbreak of the Learning Games Movement. Some of these were pretty awful and
met strong resistance particularly from adult groups. I did like the Simulation
Games—an accommodation of military training practices used to introduce
students to strategic thinking as related to their topics of study. (It seems
strange that I liked them given their origins!) Of course school teachers had
long used competitive games like spelling bees and other more complicated ones
like debate. Even in my high school years church youth rallies sported television
game-show-inspired competitions over biblical knowledge pitting teams from
neighboring churches. Although I knew the Bible pretty well, I never was
interested to use the knowledge for purposes of showing off. It seemed somehow
antithetical to the sense of charity or cooperation I learned from the Good
Book’s best teachings. And remember, I was not very competitive.
During the 70s the New Games Movement started
introducing cooperative games strategized to create community—Hippie-inspired group
play that featured Earth Balls and sometimes flowers. I started developing similar
games—both the New Games and Simulations—for youth retreats and elementary
residential camps, ones related directly to the curricular themes and that
often involved the creation of environments, for example, a simulated
archaeological dig or a Middle-Eastern marketplace. These were much more
related to the simulation games of childhood than they were to sporting events,
and they proved effective in teaching.
To this day I fail to understand any competition that devalues
human life—either that of an individual or of a group. Still I do appreciate
the grace and power of athletes. I also like a couple of card games that have
so little strategy as not to stifle conversation among the players. But I don’t
like playing even those games with players who take winning too seriously.
Lest you think I am just an old stick in the mud, I
will admit to enjoying the Christmas games my youngest granddaughters planned
for our family. They involved individuals and teams. My favorite was the Reindeer
Game. For my team I hurriedly blew up and tied off small balloons until I was
out of breath and feeling very light headed. The balloons were then stuffed
into panty hose. The team that first successfully filled the legs like antlers
and whose reindeer donned them first won. Selected for the honor of being the
reindeer were my son Michael and his wife Heather. They looked bizarrely cute,
but my favorite part of that game was my daughter Desma’s story of trying to
purchase panty hose. Suppliers have become rare. Finally she found a store that
still carries them. The clerk said, “Yes, we have them. You must be going to
play the Reindeer Game; it’s all the rage at the State workers’ office parties
this year. You got here just in time.” Handing Desma the hosiery she said, “Here
are the last two pair.”
Oh the games people play.
© 16 January 2017 
About the Author 
 Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

Sports, by Gillian

In my youth, I
understood sports to be for fun, fitness, and friendly competition. Now, in my
curmudgeonly old age, I know sports to be about money, winning at all costs,
and very unfriendly competition.
Even amateur sports
have gone completely out of whack. Have you been to a school ball game lately?
Even pee-wee baseball is all about winning. At that age, should it not be about having fun, getting some healthy fresh air exercise, and learning the basics of
the game? Oh no! Fathers scream abuse not only at other children but at their
own. God forbid that poor little Joey should strike out or fail to catch a
ball. He’ll pay for that when he gets home. The pressure on so many
children these days is immense. Everything has become so serious.
Professional sports,
of course, have paved the way. Back in the 1970s I had friends with Broncos
season tickets. The husband frequently had better things to do, and my husband
was rarely interested, so off to the game the girls went! It was fun. Having
had the same seats for several seasons, my friend knew all the people around
us. We all bought each other beers and chatted and cheered. After my divorce I
lost touch with those friends, and I did not go to a live game for a long time.
Then one day another friend had a spare ticket and I went to Mile High Stadium
again, for the first time in probably twenty years. My, how it had changed.
Everyone seemed to be angry rather than enjoying themselves. There was a
constant stream of verbal abuse hurled at the players on both teams, and of
course the officiating crew. I was so sick of the constant “F” word. By the time
I left I felt as if it had been burned into my ears and my brain and my psyche.
(Or, as Betsy commented when I read this to her, I felt completely fucked! And
not in a good way!) I have not been offered a ticket to a football game since
then; if I were, I seriously doubt that I would accept it.
I have to admit I
still follow the NFL pretty devotedly on TV. I can’t explain why I like it.
Many lesbians are ardent football fans, which seems strange as the game
consists of what most of us abhor; sanctioned violence, perpetrated by huge
sweaty men. I have to close my mind to two things, though. The violence to
women committed by an unfortunately large number of players, and the huge
salaries now offered to these people, would put me off the entire sport if I
thought about them too much, so mostly I don’t. 
After all, I don’t refuse to see a movie because of the shenanigans of
those acting in it.
I do abhor the lack
of humanity which seems to have taken over. If a player has an injury, the
opposing team members will do their best to attack that part of his body. Has
it really gotten to the stage where the intent is to do permanent bodily
injury?
“Be great for the Broncos if they could take him out for
the rest of the season,” laughs the commentator happily.
“Well if anybody can eliminate him, Foster can. Man! He
plays so angry,” rejoins his co-commentator in admiration.
“He’s
just looking to rip someone’s head off every play!”
This isn’t war.
It’s supposed to be a game. Was it always so merciless? Maybe so and I didn’t
get it. After all I have never played football.
OK. Fair enough.
Football is a violent game. If you don’t like it don’t watch it.
But it’s not just
football.
I have played
tennis, though far from the Pro level. But, at that Pro level, how it has
changed. Once considered a sport of Gentlemen and Ladies, it is now as
cut-throat as any other professional sport.
“Now Farmer’s
injured that right ankle, Varenova will keep her going to that side, see if she
can’t break her down,” a happy commentator reports.
“Exactly,”
replies another, “It’s time to take advantage of that injury and finish
her off. Go in for the kill right now.”
So this verbiage of
violence seems to have penetrated even the sport of Ladies and Gentlemen.  It is so pervasive, and I cannot believe it
has a positive effect on our society.
All this, and the
seriousness with which we take sports, players and spectators alike, of course
has come with the advent of huge financial rewards. These in turn came with the
universal obsession with sports by so many people. In the days before huge
lights dominated the playing fields, games were played in the daylight hours,
thus eliminating most of the potential fans who were, of necessity, at work.
Even if it were broadcast live on the radio, or later the old black-and-white
TV, few were available to enjoy it. Most were played at weekends, to attract
more followers, but time off work was limited and people had many things to
cram into a weekend.
Then came the huge
brightly-lit stadium where people could gather after work and watch, or watch
at home on the TV in the evening, relaxing from that hard day at the factory.  The fan base kept growing. Sports were becoming
big business. Compensation for players and coaches, support staff and owners,
kept rising.
Then came mass
media, complete with ever-improved recording devises and exponentially
increasing choices of what to watch when. No need to miss anything. Ever.
Grandma turns up unexpectedly right at the kickoff or the first serve; no
matter. Press the little red button and welcome Granny with open arms. In
addition, the fan base for all sports is expanding horizontally, across the
globe. Want to watch the Australian Open Tennis here in the U.S.? Can’t even
figure out what day it is in Australia, never mind what time? No worries. Look
it up on the TV Guide, on the TV of course, not that little book we once bought
at the grocery store, hit that little red button and go to bed. Watch it
tomorrow. Sometime. Whenever.
So, given
professional sport’s universal, world wide appeal, I suppose the money involved
is only to be expected. I’m not sure what Neil Armstrong earned by being the
first human ever to walk on the moon, but I doubt it was anything like what
many many sports heroes earn. But why not? The moon walk was reportedly watched
by 530 million people. The 2011 Cricket World Cup between India and Pakistan
was supposedly watched by about one billion.
I miss the days
with less hype, less money, less drama, involved in sports. But what I really
really miss is the gentler language, before it all became so infused with
violence. But it seems to be what most people want. After all, you get what you
pay for.
© 3 Nov 2014 
About
the Author
 
I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.

Road Trip by Gillian

I came honestly by my
addiction to road trips. I was introduced to them by my mum and dad. In Britain
during, and for years after, World War Two, private cars were relatively rare;
gas was severely rationed. But as we staggered into the fifties, our world
became a little brighter and Dad took his old car down off the blocks where it
had rested for a decade. He worked lovingly on it for some time, then lo and
behold suddenly one Sunday afternoon we were off to the Welsh mountains. Before
long the afternoon jaunts graduated to day excursions and thence to a week in
Cornwall and two weeks in Scotland. There was never any discussion of camping,
not a very attractive prospect in the wet cold British weather, but we were on
a low budget and stayed in small back-street B & B’s. These were nothing like their upscale
modern U.S. namesakes, but simply a spare room in a very modest house, usually
sharing the bathroom and breakfast with the owners. In this style we went to
many different parts of the country and met many interesting people.
Perhaps, had I not been
an only child, I would have hated these vacations and even the day trips the
way many modern kids hate spending hours in the car. But I had the luxury of
the back seat to myself, without noisy squabbling siblings to dig elbows in my
ribs or squash me against the door handle and demand the windows be open; or
closed. I never once recall asking, even silently in my own head, “Are we there
yet?” I think it was a safe and warm haven to me, shut away in this metal box,
just the three of us.
But it was my mother
who turned it from an OK activity to something I truly loved. Mum kept up
something of a running commentary as we passed through the farms and towns. She
loved history and regaled Dad and me, though he never responded except
occasionally to glance back at me in the rear-view mirror and wink, with
fascinating tidbits about different places; not boring things like dates but
little anecdotes. At the time I believed it all to be true, though looking back
I’m not completely
convinced, though she certainly was a very knowledgeable woman. Apart from
history, she would make up silly stories about a farm we just passed, or the
vicar of a village church, or the family in a car we met going the other way.
There were still not many cars on the roads then, so seeing one was just an
invitation to Mom’s
imagination. Most of all, she loved to laugh, and if there was nothing too
immediately amusing in the vicinity, she would create something. She made
herself giggle with some of her imagined stories, and she paid great attention
to license plates, making them into acronyms or rhymes.
My mother leaps up in
my memory quite often, and usually it’s
when something comes up that I know would have made her giggle. During football
games, for instance, not that I can imagine Mum ever enjoying football, but how
she would giggle at some of the commentary, when they say things like, “He wasn’t doing much when he was an Eagle, but
as a Panther he’s
really come into his own.” When she stopped her giggles she would then, I know,
weave some wonderful fairy story around this failed eagle which somehow morphed
into a more successful big cat.
Anyway, having made a
short story long, that was my introduction to road trips; followed, inevitable
by a hiatus of decades given over to work and family. Then, in celebration of a
new millennium, Betsy and I bought our VW camper van and embarked on our own
series of road trips. I haven’t
had time to count them up, but they must number around twenty-five for a total
time of maybe a year, though we rarely are away for more than three or four
weeks at a time.
We have been many
places from the Mexican border to, and into, Canada; and from coast to coast.
We have visited every one of the lower forty-eight states, and camped in most
of them.
We have seen sights we
had always wanted to see but not had the chance, and chanced upon things we had
no idea of. Unlike taking a plane, when the best you can possibly hope for is a
journey that is uneventful, road trips are never uneventful; nor do you want
them to be, though it’s
good when the wonderful surprises well outnumber the bad ones. We have of
course had our share of those less positive – flat tires both on the road and
in campgrounds, loading up in the morning all ready to go and the van won’t start; freeway accidents only narrowly
averted and near misses with tornadoes, hail storms, and forest fires.
I understand that one
day in the not too distant future one of us is going to reach the age where
camping road trips are not such an attractive option. It’s unclear at this time which of us will
reach that stage first, Betsy or me or Brunhilda as we call the van, mostly
though not always, with great affection. That will be a sad day, whatever the
reason. But one of the blessings of aging seems to be the ability to accept
with relative ease that the good times of the moment will inevitably come to an
end, but only to be replaced by other, different, good times. We can love
taking out our favorite memories and dusting them off for further enjoyment,
but at the same time always creating new ones while continuing, with luck, to
live without regrets. And I suspect that my most frequently re-visited
memories, as long as I’m
privileged to have memories, will be of oh those many road trips.
© 15 August 2014 
About
the Author 
I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.