To me, the word Punk describes a certain type of people, a certain lifestyle. Punks are extreme in their look. Extreme in fashion and behavior. Punks are loud and proud and in your face. They don’t adhere to any rules. For example, a punk girl might choose to not shave her armpits or legs. She simply lets her body do what it naturally does; she does not alter it. Punk can be anything from dreadlocks, hair in its most unaltered form, to bright intense dyed colors, spiked up with hair cement into sharp inhuman angles. There is a punk aesthetic for sure, but I think the attitude is what really matters. A punk stands outside of society. They stand outside the norm. Punks do what they want and they do it loudly. Punks have fun. Punks don’t take things too seriously. Punks do not put their physical well-being ahead of living in the moment and making the most of it. Punks don’t worry about things. They go with the flow or they make it happen. Punk is not having to follow any rules but your own. Punk is about freedom.

I’d been playing the game for over a year when I found out it had started out as “Punk Rock Kickball”.  I’d always just known it as Sunday Kickball. I did notice though, that the oldest-been-playing-the-game-the-longest members of the tribe were in fact very punk. There was a lot I didn’t know about the league. I didn’t know about the history between players, some drama, some grudges. I didn’t know we’d ever banned someone. I didn’t know about some of the sad history. A once regular player committed suicide. He was young. Apparently, kickball meant a lot to him. Many people continue to play in his honor.

Even in my short history of playing, I have been around for some league lows. Last summer, an occasional attendee died in a motorcycle accident. It was the same summer, at a Sunday kickball game, when I got a text message telling me that my brother was dying. I couldn’t really handle it, so I put my phone away. I chose to play instead.

* * *

There have been some crazy kickball games. I saw a truck pull up to the field dragging a trailer and a few minutes later a live band pounded out punk rock during the game. I’ve seen the ball popped by both dog and human. There are always a very wide variety of dogs, but once, somebody brought a pig. There was a mud game, a night game, a we-had-to-move-locations game. There have been fireworks during the seventh inning stretch on the Fourth of July. We once had a player drive down the bike path to deliver a dozen boxes of beer and bottles of wine. His car nearly bottomed-out it was so weighed down. It took all of the ‘Kickballerz’ several trips to move the booze over to our dugout. It wasn’t until then that we realized all the beer was as old as we were. The wine didn’t even have a date on it. The taste was tolerable, borderline not bad, so we drank the hell outta it.

* * * 

The worst injury to date happened when someone was guarding first base. A base-runner jumped directly onto the first baseman’s leg and broke it. He has a steel plate now. I’ve picked up a few injuries myself. I have a scar on my left leg from kneecap down my shin. It’s from sliding into base with bare skin. Three times. I got a friction burn. I had to see a doctor. I blame tequila, but ever since then I wear tall socks.

My personal best moment in the field was a catch I made standing in a puddle of mud in the outfield. My arms stretched out directly overhead, and snatched the ball by the tips of my fingers. Everyone who plays kickball has that personal best moment. It’s a great feeling. It is so empowering. It’s something you can always remember and draw strength from. Don’t get me wrong, kickball can be tough. There are always moments of humiliation: missed balls, slips, fumbles. And of course, those moments are way more frequent. We are average people after all. We’re not well-trained athletes. I’ve never seen anyone stretch before ‘Punk Kickball.’

* * * 

In elementary school, I was one of those girls who did nothing in gym class. I always just stood there. I was terribly shy and strange, so the other kids picked on me. I was picked last more often than not no matter what the game. It was a given. The sad truth is all that getting picked last made me think I was a terrible player so I never tried. I missed out on the fun of actually playing those games.

I know what keeps some of these punk people coming back to play kickball every year. Some of them have been coming for nearly twenty years. I look around kickball and it’s such a rag-tag, mix-match assemblage of people. We have guys in t-shirts and ball caps, tie-dye to shirtless. The girls rock a variety of loud fashion from vests, to dresses, to boots. Many people play barefoot. The league has coed teams; we have transgendered players, we have disabled players. We have players of every race and every sexual orientation. The only thing we don’t have is normal.

We are misfits and weirdos and family. No, it’s not full punk aesthetic, but it’s full of punk attitude. At kickball, we can relax in the all accepting, non-judgmental company of one another. We can be the worry-free punks. We can be free and unrestrained. We can be natural. We can be ourselves. And sometimes, that’s really fun.

* * * 

It was at kickball where I found out he was dying. That it was finally going to happen. This big thing we’d been dreading for years, that unspoken cloud always hanging overhead darkening the world around me. The day had finally come. And it was Sunday. Sunday Kickball day. It’s my day. I thought, my brother would want me to be happy. He would want me to never hold back for fear that I’m not good enough, not athletic enough. He’d want me to give it my all and have fun. I thought (and still think) he would want me to live, as much as I could, as hard as I could.

We’d been waiting for ten years for the drinking and the hepatitis to kill him, and before that we were waiting for the heroin to kill him. Here we were waiting again. I never wanted it to happen. I was just so tired of the weight of knowing it would.

The sky had been so beautiful that day. I sat watching the sunset with my cell phone tight in hand. I was waiting for the next text, maybe a phone call. For some reason I was hoping he’d go with sun, I wanted it to be peaceful and beautiful. I already knew that it wasn’t.

It happened after the sun slipped out of sight. It happened after all traces of light disappeared. It happened in the dark. It happened as I sat in the back backseat of my friend’s car on our way to a party after kickball. Or at least that’s where I was when my mother texted me. He’s gone. That’s all it said.

* * * 

I think that each and every one of us comes to kickball for a different reason. For some of us, it is to honor the memory of an old friend and keep alive the flame of something he held dear. For many, it is simply for the all-accepting social atmosphere, and the drinks, and the smokes, and the laughs. It’s for that small window of freedom. For some of us, it’s for that triumphant moment when we make that one really great play. It’s for that one thing you can hold onto and draw courage from. That feeling of pride that can sometimes be so hard to find elsewhere in life. For some of us it’s about getting better each week, it’s about playing the game as best you can and improving yourself. And for some of us, it’s a way to play through life. To kick away your troubles and pain. To kick it hard.

And run those bases.

Run to live in the moment. Run like a punk. Run like you don’t care. Run like you have no rules. Run away from the stress of daily life, the expectations, and the pressure. Run to escape your childhood, your reputation, your loneliness, your guilt, your shame, your embarrassment, run to get away from the pain, run to conquer it, run through grief, run through trauma, run through heartache, run through the jagged shards of your broken family and don’t worry about the blood, run over the scattered remains of your every failed relationship, run to prove wrong every person who’s ever talked shit about you, run to prove it to yourself, run to remember and run to forget, run to be alive, run to be free, run to live. Run because you still can. Run.

Kate E Lore was born in Dayton and is currently a resident of Columbus, Ohio. Since getting her bachelor’s degree from The Ohio State University, Kate has had many short stories and essays published with various magazines. Kate won honorable mention for an essay published in Switchgrass Review. An occasional freelance illustrator, Kate has a self-published a comic book, been featured in comic anthologies, and had a three-panel-strip running for one year with 1870 Magazine.