The Unspoken Rules of Kickball

And the Day Play Turned Into Performance

I can still feel the late-morning sun on my face and the sting of tiny rocks under my sneakers. The scent of cut grass and dusty blacktop filled the air, and the cacophony of a hundred small voices blended into a symphony of recess. Every day, the ritual was the same: the mad dash to the field, the captains being chosen, and the agonizing process of team selection.

My elementary school playground was a masterclass in social hierarchies. The captains, always the most athletic or popular kids, would stand on either side of the field, their eyes scanning the eager crowd. Then came the choosing, a slow, public roll call of desirability. The best players went first—the kid who could kick a ball to the horizon, the one with lightning speed, the one who could catch anything thrown their way. With each name called, the group of us waiting shrank, and the unspoken rules of the game became clearer.

As the numbers dwindled, the choice became less about skill and more about necessity. You were no longer being picked for what you could do, but because the captain literally had no one else left to choose. That’s when it would happen. The moment the game of kickball stopped being a game and started being a performance.

Before that moment, for me, the game was pure play. A space where the energy of my body and the bounds of my imagination could run wild. The objective was simple: kick the ball, run the bases, and have fun. The rules were a loose suggestion, and the outcome of the game was almost an afterthought. The motivation was curiosity—how far could I kick it today? What happens if I try to slide into home base? The joy was in the play, not the outcome of the game.

But as a child, being picked last was a profound message. It was a clear signal that I was a liability, not an asset. The game's unspoken rules had changed, and my role was no longer to play, but to perform.