The transformative powers of one particular life-simulating and rather archaic activity are immeasurable. The allure of the game I speak of is so powerful that it causes people to emerge from all recesses of the earth to come join in, wherever it is played. It surpasses all in simplicity, intensity, and charm.
Four-square.
Yes, four-square. What else?
You know the rules. Or if you don't, you did at one point, I'm sure. Anyone who needs four-square instructions can e-mail me immediately.
Four-square.Yes, four-square. What else?
You know the rules. Or if you don't, you did at one point, I'm sure. Anyone who needs four-square instructions can e-mail me immediately.
You will love four-square. Here's why.
I'm good at it. In other words, the common man can excel at this game – everybody has a chance to be "king"for a time (spaces are labelled in a clockwise formation as a monarchial hierarchy). It takes minimal skill but maximum focus to thrive in a four-square challenge. In fact, I've encountered more than a few adults who, in exasperation, have wondered aloud why little girls have been able to annihilate them on the court.
More importantly, though, we can find plenty of life-metaphors within the game. Each one of us, for example, exists within our own little boxes – our own little life-squares. We put up our walls and we try to keep others far, far away. But ultimately, we need other players to join in the game. Nobody wants to play one-square.
Also, like the basic reward/penalty system that drives the game, we certaintly value "staying in." At least I want to stay in. I don't want to check out, to view my life from the sidelines. I want to live now, I want to be in-gaged. With God as my anchor, I can transcend the crumminess of everyday life yet remain grounded all at once. I don't wanna get out. I want to be fully engaged and embody each moment fully; I want to participate fully in every aspect of my life.
And what of the unpredictability of the ball in four-square? Focused and ready, we never know which direction or velocity the ball will enter our square at. We can never be totally ready for what comes our way – we can only ever adjust. Sounds familiar.
Another exceptionally cool aspect of the game is the way the four chalk-boxes call forth the inner child within each of us. I've conducted a mental experiment to verify the amount of time it takes someone to challenge another player about whether they are out or not.
Four minutes. Fiery banter erupts on a four-square court in four minutes or less. The four-square court looks more like a Judge Judy court after only four minutes because nobody wants to relinquish their chance at becoming king.
We're survivors. We're self-preservationalists. When the ball hits a line, we leap at the possibility of a re-do. When I make an error, my senses heighten and I fight for my life on the court. In that moment, all that matters is staying in. Getting "out" stings.
My favorite part of the game, though, is the merciful re-do. How often to we come across second chances in our life-squares? Or forgiveness?
You get to "re-do" the round if the ball hits the line, if it hits your feet (chicken feet), or if there's virtually any confusion at all as to what just occurred. How cool? In four-square, we allow second chances. We allow for imperfections.
Springtime ushers in new opportunities for outdoor entertainment. Four squares await you. Are you in or out?
I'm good at it. In other words, the common man can excel at this game – everybody has a chance to be "king"for a time (spaces are labelled in a clockwise formation as a monarchial hierarchy). It takes minimal skill but maximum focus to thrive in a four-square challenge. In fact, I've encountered more than a few adults who, in exasperation, have wondered aloud why little girls have been able to annihilate them on the court.
More importantly, though, we can find plenty of life-metaphors within the game. Each one of us, for example, exists within our own little boxes – our own little life-squares. We put up our walls and we try to keep others far, far away. But ultimately, we need other players to join in the game. Nobody wants to play one-square.
Also, like the basic reward/penalty system that drives the game, we certaintly value "staying in." At least I want to stay in. I don't want to check out, to view my life from the sidelines. I want to live now, I want to be in-gaged. With God as my anchor, I can transcend the crumminess of everyday life yet remain grounded all at once. I don't wanna get out. I want to be fully engaged and embody each moment fully; I want to participate fully in every aspect of my life.
Another exceptionally cool aspect of the game is the way the four chalk-boxes call forth the inner child within each of us. I've conducted a mental experiment to verify the amount of time it takes someone to challenge another player about whether they are out or not.
Four minutes. Fiery banter erupts on a four-square court in four minutes or less. The four-square court looks more like a Judge Judy court after only four minutes because nobody wants to relinquish their chance at becoming king.
We're survivors. We're self-preservationalists. When the ball hits a line, we leap at the possibility of a re-do. When I make an error, my senses heighten and I fight for my life on the court. In that moment, all that matters is staying in. Getting "out" stings.
My favorite part of the game, though, is the merciful re-do. How often to we come across second chances in our life-squares? Or forgiveness?
You get to "re-do" the round if the ball hits the line, if it hits your feet (chicken feet), or if there's virtually any confusion at all as to what just occurred. How cool? In four-square, we allow second chances. We allow for imperfections.
Springtime ushers in new opportunities for outdoor entertainment. Four squares await you. Are you in or out?
redos are rare and you only should take them when you really deserve them. you can't be the person always arguing for a redo
ReplyDeleteYes, especially because if everyone we're given too many chances they would never learn from their mistakes. But I think we all deserve more redos than we're given, and we shouldn't have to argue for them.
ReplyDelete