Paul Richardson: Gorilla Ball has left its marks

Growing up during my elementary and secondary school years, the day after Thanksgiving was as important to me as the Holiday.

While it may have been an unimportant, insignificant Friday, it was a vacation from school and was normally not burdened with the normal workday chores. It was sort of a family holiday.

Thanksgiving Day on its own was usually quite the event. This holiday was the ultimate family gathering for my father’s side of the tree. This was their traditional time when all of the family gathered together, and one big celebration ensued. 

There was the traditional meal, but that was always preceded and followed by a variety of activities dependent upon the location of the gathering. 

Dad was the youngest of five brothers, so the location was on a rotational basis. One year it would be at Grandma’s, then move to one of the uncles, eventually revolving back around to Grandma’s. This would include a turn at Grandma’s youngest brother, Uncle Carl Sweeney’s place.

Since the entertainment activities were dependent upon the location, when it was at our home the game was basketball. Or should we call it Gorilla Ball? 

My cousins ranged in age beginning at fifteen years my senior to me with only my sister being younger than myself. The family was heavy on the male side so out of twelve cousins, eight were male. Throw in three of the uncles, the two oldest refrained from these types of activities, and there were always enough to divvy up two teams for this raucous and now escaping the normal rules of basketball, contact sport.

I can’t recall which one of the uncles made the rule that any blocks thrown with a hand must be in the form of closed fist. No slapping allowed. If the ball was for some reason knocked out of the playing area, one would want to take a teammate in order to retrieve it. 

This became a standard rule after an occasion in which one of my cousins chased a loose ball that had ended up by the hedge that bordered my parent’s lawn. Another cousin on the opposing team was also in pursuit, but when he lost the initial race, possession was obtained by shoving the winner of footrace headfirst into the hedge when he bent over to retrieve the basketball. No harm, no foul, this was gorilla ball, you see.

While this sounds violent and painful, these were some of the best times of our lives. As the years went on and cousins moved away, which was then followed by gradual loss of family members, the gathering has been reduced to a number too small to field a gorilla ball team and too tired to chase a loose ball.

So that unimportant, insignificant Friday, the day once removed, became important in a lot of ways. It was a time to rest, time to have a great family day and it was a time to heal. Gorilla Ball had left its marks!

(Paul Richardson's column, The Horse I Rode In On, is published weekly in the Neosho Daily News, Seneca News-Dispatch and on the Turner Report.)

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The people, places and events that made living in Newton County, Missouri during the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s are recalled in Newton County Memories, available in paperback and e-book from Amazon.