Across rural communities, big, old barns have offered many things to the farm families who owned them over the decades, most of them quite practical. But in the eyes of the youngest of those families, the barns held something at least a little bit magical.
While sitting with family and friends at the YMCA gymnasium yesterday, the subject of barn ball came up with a hearty dose of laughter. We were cheering on our second graders as they played their way to the championship against a team made up of some much bigger third graders who knew how to throw an elbow. Our 7 and 8 year olds played hard and prevailed, winning it all.
While one of the moms in the bleachers lamented how rough the opposing team played, there was a bullish dose of opposing thought among those who grew up playing barn basketball.
It brought memories of sweeping down the barn floor after my older sister convinced our dad to help hang a couple of basketball hoops. My most athletic sister invited her friends to come shoot some hoops, and the best winters of our childhood began.
Basketball was something we could do while waiting for the lake to freeze deeply enough to skate, and it was a great gathering spot for us.
The friends who showed up to play were mostly the Hoover boys, all athletic, tall and strong, and who helped us on the farm. Our dads were classmates who had grown up working their own family farms, and basketball was their shining sport.
Many snow days found our barn filled with kids who managed to find a way to get to our place. As the youngest, I got the job of running to the house for ice water and rags for wiping blood, sweat and tears as it became necessary.
The action on the barn floor was fierce and fun; the basketball often taking wild bounces that added a tricky element of consequence.
The best seat in the place was the upper hay mow, warm enough to settle in for the competition below, munching on saltines we had smuggled from the house.
It is there that I fell in love with the sport, thrown elbows and all.
