Stickball in the Sticks
Marc, the first guy in our gang with shoulder length hair, did a bang-up job at "fully experiencing the spirit of the 60s." But to his credit, by 1978 Marc realized that things had changed, and in fact, a degree might be useful. Unfortunately due to his previous life on campus, options had narrowed, and Marc's best alternative was a small school located in the rural Midwest. He performed well academically, but found the cultural environment to be more of a challenge.
On a warm June day, while stranded between sessions, Marc came across a discarded broom stick. Memories of summers in the projects kicked in. He grabbed an old rubber ball, a piece of chalk and called up a few of his local classmates. Deciding that the rear of the administration building provided the perfect backdrop, Marc introduced NYC stickball to the Great Plains.
They loved it. They couldn't get enough. Marathon session ensued. They began in the mornings, when the air was still cool, played through the hanging afternoon heat, and even went deep into the eve, thanks to the newly installed parking lot illumination. After two weeks, their arms were shot, the balls were gone and the administration had enlightened them about the proper use of campus facilities.
In toto, a short and sweet experience, but for that brief season, they weren't in Kansas anymore.
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