A spirited game of "kicking the ball".

Oxnards Versus Goddens.  Kickball.  None of a wit to lose with dignity, and none of them a winner among them; they one or lost the way wheat stupidly sticks up in the breeze after Independence Day, and that and nothing more, emphasizing the "stupid" more than the "sticking up".

Baby Sweet was the referee, improbable full-black that he was, a refugee from a 70s film, a buddy looking for a hard-nose cop to love.  He would call the ball if it went past the still-smoking trash can, or over the bed of Darnell's truck.

It was Bobcat that kicked the ball past everybody else, Bobcat the gentleman unemployed pundit of the outfit, a gentleman's gentleman, full of piss and vinegar and good lines about bad tidings--a familiar at Clyde's house, where the ball landed and sailed on, warping out of shape with spin and torque, momentum, and on across the yards.

Doug was the odd man, kind of a secret agent, "inside man" that watched the world with a downcast, pessimistic eye, and he was drafted to go get the ball.

Clyde was but a distant spectator, on his rear stoop with light beer, hoping the girls would get in their bikinis.

So Doug went and the game had stopped, and things kind of hung in the air awkwardly between friends and neighbors, the two families pursed in the thrill of competition, and that made, like I done said, awkward.

Clyde could see Doug across the way in Mister Red's yard, and be darned, where the competitors couldn't see, Doug was pissing on the wheel of Mister Red's shiny new Toyota sedan.

It was never quite made sense by anyone outside, full-black and full-white, side-by-side, brother and sister, it was like it was a street gang more than a family, with Bobcat and Doug and Seban being the outliers, Monmouth and Crissie were the commentators, the detached superego of the group, perched conspiratorially at the kitchen counter on two stools, sitting, white and black, salt and pepper shakers, and nobody ever knew if they had sex, or understood them when they talked, because they had a secret language no one else understood between the two.

Finally, Doug got back with the ball and Bobcat lined-up for another kick.  He punted the ball on a dip in the yard and the thing sailed, spinning crazily, up over his head and then went backwards, even behind Darnell's truck, and Baby Sweet laughed gleefully, generally unflappable shouting "foul! strike two!".

"We don't do balls and strikes in kickball" said Doug, with an air of menace, kind of that old man menace, like the slight would be remembered later at some dreadfully inconvenient time.

Baby Sweet ignored him.

Crissie and Amelia both went after the ball, Amelia stopping halfway just to watch, the two in jean shorts and dollar-store loafers, dressed more for an afternoon on the patio, than the thrill of competition, but it was Round Robin after all, and Bobcat got another strike.

The next kick bounced off the top of the tin roof of Clyde's next-door house, and Clyde sat, concentrating on the sound to guess which side of the house the ball would come down on, but it rolled off the front, and that sent a fury, an all-fired hurried murder of Goddens running around the house to retrieve the ball and hopefully hit Bobcat with it before he tagged the home plate, which was Darnell's old F150.