Stretching for miles in the safe
community of Davis, the green belt is a long bike path containing grassy
fields, play structures, and work-out stations for those intense soccer moms
committed to keeping their cardio training up. But the most important part of
the greenbelt to my childhood contained none of these more pleasant qualities
of an upper-middle class park. As twelve year olds devoted to the idea of stirring
trouble, my friends and I didn’t need much help to find ways to cause chaos and
mayhem. Dried twigs and clods of dirt in a meadow the size of a soccer field
was all my friends and I required to stay entertained during our seventh grade
years, and we found exactly this in the dirt-clod field behind some rarely-used
tennis courts on the greenbelt.
During one particular day, my buddy
Mike had bought a water-balloon launcher and we quickly began launching the few
water balloons we had left before aiming pomegranates at pigeons. We even set
up our bikes in line formations and attempted to launch any objects we could
find to try and knock them over. It was after Adam’s bike went crashing to the
ground that a simultaneous light-bulb went on in all our heads: let’s turn this
into a fight. My friends and I quickly divided into two groups, ran to separate
ends of the field, placed our bicycles on their kickstands next to each other,
and started throwing the dirt-clods at the other team. The goal was to be the
first group to knock over all the bicycles of the opposing team with the
dirt-clods. Of course, if you ventured too close to the other team, you were
liable to get a dirt-clod smacking you in the head. Despite our shoulders
getting sore, our clothes getting dirtied, and our skin getting battered and bruised,
we couldn’t help laughing and having the time of our lives. After about an hour
of an intense battle, the game came to an abrupt halt when Ty hit Adam with
what was technically deemed a “pebble” and not a “dirt-clod,” leading to a
quick disqualification. But the fun had been had, and for the rest of the day,
no bruises or broken bones could ever have wiped those grins off our faces.
Twelve years later, my daily jogs
take me by the field as I seem to have been influenced by those soccer moms I
thought I never would have emulated. Only now, the field has no more
dirt-clods, as green grass has instead grown in, with random flowers and
unexpected weeds blooming depending on the season. All my friends have gone
their separate ways now, and while we occasionally catch up, most of us have
lives of our own that keep us occupied most of the time. When some of my
friends do swing by Davis, we might grab a bite to eat, or watch a sports game,
but without our bicycles leading the way, there is little reason for us to
travel on the greenbelt any longer. I hardly notice it on my runs anymore, but
every now and then I turn my head, looking in the direction of the dirt-clod
field, and remember those kids with grins on their faces that could have lit up
the sky.
