The Death of the Playful Man

As a child I remember going over to my friend’s house almost daily. There was never an invitation. Permission to drop by was neither sought nor expected. Friends just burst into one another’s lives at the most unscheduled of times. It was wonderful to feel my knuckles rapping on my friend’s weathered door, to fling it open and either join the party or create it. It was a carefree life for quite a while but eventually the winds of change slammed shut the doors of childhood. The playful child grew up.

There can be no adulthood without childhood and much of who you are has been shaped by the person you were. Why are there so many adults who seem to have no spark remaining from their childhood? Are most adults really adults or are they actors playing a roll that has been written by others? I think the world would be a better place if we could all get back into the sandbox with our Tonka trucks and dolls. I’ve done some substitute teaching so I know firsthand that kids can be mean but, for the most part, they are wide eyed and beautiful.

Recently we had friends over and the discussion lead to a very somber subject. One of our friends was a social services worker and he was telling us how he had just spent two days in court reading victim impact statements in a murder trial. His story was riveting, most certainly heart wrenching and sadly necessary. The conversation eventually turned to football. A child’s game that became big business that remains a child’s game. My wife remarked that she loved the look of the players in their shiny, tight pants. A facet of the game going unnoticed by the beer guzzling, body painted, rabid fans of the game.

My wife’s comment opened the door to my childhood. I excused myself and left the room. I went to my bedroom closet and pulled down a pair of shiny track pants. I slithered into them and then found a deliciously plump pillow with which to enhance my rather pedestrian rear end. From the waist down I looked every part the football player on the offensive line. Certainly offensive. I threw on a football jersey, slapped on a Nike toque, tucked a football under my arm and marched proudly back toward the jabbering adults. I was a child. They smiled and laughed uproariously. For a moment the bombs were not dropping in Baghdad .

Is it the weight of the world that turns the corners of our mouths from smiles to frowns? Does watching the evening news make you feel good or lousy but informed? I don’t want the last thought in my head before I fall asleep to be something gleaned from a depressing news broadcast. I can’t even watch the television any more.

I wish that the world would be run by women. I wish the heads of state were women. I’d like to see the army run by women and then slowly disbanded. The church? Sure, definitely worth a try. Am I the only man who feels this way? Or is there an army of us out there, ready to put down our arms and start stuffing pillows in our track pants. No one’s going to ask the men of this world to start acting goofy. There is a time to be serious. The world isn’t always filled with puppies, balloons and high-fives but when it is we shouldn’t be afraid to take notice and react. The playful man is not dead but he’s on life support all over our beautiful blue planet.