Ringer!

It was a hot July Saturday in the early eighties. Our neighbors held a big BBQ for the entire subdivision and we’d all shown up. That’s what families did back in those times. Being in my mid-teens, I navigated that awkward stage between childhood and early adulthood. I was too old to deal with the little kids yet not cool enough to hang out with my two older brothers and their friends. Mostly, I mingled with the older folks, since they seemed to like my company, or at least my willingness to listen to the stories they told, many of which I’d heard more than a few times.

We’d all feasted on burgers, dogs, chips, potato/macaroni/pasta salads, and a bounty of homemade desserts, all dutifully prepared by the neighborhood moms. Large coolers brimmed with soda and beer—the latter disappearing quicker than the former.

Once the last weenie rolled off the charcoal production line and the grill tenders hung up their aprons, it was time for the horseshoe tournament. (For those of you not accustomed to this time-honored tradition, click on this link: rules for the game of horseshoes - Search)

Teams of men quickly lined up at the three or four horseshoe pits set into the nowhere-near-regulation gravel parking lot while the rest of us wannabe players awaited our turn.

And it was on, with all the tossing, grunting, clanging, cheering, and taunting (beer muscles were in full force). I watched round after round, noting how each player pitched their shoe. Some went with the traditional end over end style, while others twisted their wrist, sending the horseshoe spinning sideways in hopes of catching the iron pin somewhere in the middle of all that rotation.

Several matches later, a spot opened up for me to team up with a family friend. I’d learned how to play the game from my father, and he preferred a variation of the end over end style. He’d try to flip the shoe over once in the air, so that it either clanged directly onto the pin, or landed a short distance in front and skipped off the ground to clink home.

While the rotation of my first few throws was okay, my aim was off. Then, I entered the zone. My opponent caught the pin with his horseshoe and he yelled in triumph. I cut his celebration short when I pitched the first of my two shoes, a ringer of my own, cancelling out his points. His second shoe went wide. I then clanged a second ringer, eliciting a “nice!” from my father, watching from the sidelines. With his rare praise ringing in my ears, I could not miss. Ringers and leaners followed and my teammate and I handily dispatched the other team. The next round went much the same, and then we took a break.

During that timeout, I asked Mom if I could skip my Catholic altar boy duty that evening, since I was on such a roll (A.K.A. Dad, my dad, was cheering me on). In her patient, knowing manner, she said I could skip, but not before I gave proper thought to what keeping commitments meant. After a moment, I sighed and agreed that I needed to go to church.

The service couldn’t get over fast enough. Every time I rang the bells during sacrament, I’d hear the ring of iron on iron back at the pits. When the priest finally bade us all to go with God’s blessing, I rushed out and hopped into Mom’s car for the ride back to the event.

It was just light enough to play, so I teamed up with one of my dad’s friends. Though I retained a level of accuracy, he’d eagerly succumbed to his favorite beer’s advertising jingle all afternoon (🎶Shaeffer is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one🎶) and therefore hit everything but the pin with his shoes. Soon, darkness came and the magic was over.

I’ll never forget that afternoon and hearing Dad’s encouragement. It’s a moment I cherish even now, decades later. Today, cornhole is the new horseshoes, and every time I get into the zone during a match, the echoes of my dad’s praise ring in my ears, much the way those magical horseshoes did each time they struck home on that fateful afternoon. 

Thanks for going back in time with me. I hope it has sparked some of your own favorite summertime memories, when life was simpler. Feel free to share in the comments section below or via email. I always love to read your perspectives.

Until next week, whatever you are, get into the zone and be a good one!

-Dave