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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
The final score was 16-16. While the world was watching Copa América and Euro 2024, I was watching a six-year-old use chalk to create goal lines in an empty school parking lot. The sidelines were provided by grass to the west, a footpath to the east on a section of pavement that was flat enough to discourage gravity from luring the ball onto the street.
Soccer was not among the outdoor games of my childhood. But I’d cheered on enough mini-athletes to know it was feet that propelled the ball and only goalies were allowed to use their hands. In a reversal of roles, my grandson instructed me to stop the ball with my left foot before kicking it with my right, “‘Cause that’s your strong one, Bubba.” He offered tips for blocking and shooting; explained the throw-in and offside rules in such short, clear sentences that I wondered if the input I’d given regarding vowel sounds and silent “e” had been excessive; had hindered, rather than helped, his reading.
Half an hour in, we took a water break. I’d managed to score five goals to his three. Even do a few successful drop-kicks.
“Not bad for an old woman,” I said.
My grandson replied: “Just so you know, I’m going easy on you.”
That became obvious in the minutes that remained. Six, seven, eight points for me! It was a slow climb to 16 goals while he stayed at three. But once I noted out loud that it was almost time to pick up his sister, he tied the game lickety split. Thirteen goals in a blur of lime-green running shoes and mismatched socks; he was a time-lapse video to my pillar of salt.
It used to be me that let my grandchildren win. Hide ‘n’ Seek with toddlers who covered their eyes and giggled while I searched the room in which they stood; games ending with an enthusiastic, “Oh, THERE you are!” and their request to play it again. Spot It where we compared the eight symbols on two cards and hurried to find the one that appeared on both. Or not hurry, which allowed my young competitor to spot the ice cube, or sunglasses, or zebra and shout its name. Memory was the anomaly. Preschoolers triumphed. Try as I might, they found the pairs before I did. I like to think it’s because I was distracted by the quirky Oliver Jeffers drawings that embellished the cards. Probably not.
And Monopoly? Let’s just say I’ve concluded it’s less about skill, more about who lands on the free parking space and how much is in the pot when they do. This summer a multiday competition began the evening of my older grandson’s arrival. Like estate agents, we negotiated deals at dawn, at dusk and after the evening dog walk, which prompted his dad to say to me, “You must love Monopoly.” Not really. But I love that kid. When they left, I waited a few days before placing all the game pieces back in the box; much like my mother-in-law who kept the smudgy handprints of young guests on the sliding glass doors of her Kelowna balcony. Long after we’d returned to Ontario.
As grandparents, it’s less about winning or losing; more about gratitude that we’re alive to play the games. Now for Hide ‘n’ Seek, we count to 50 (slowly) and make a cup of tea before we start looking. When it’s our turn to hide, we sit inside the tub, pull the shower curtain, and sit as quiet as an elder who needs to change positions frequently can sit. If the noise inside the house is louder than the thunderstorm that’s keeping us confined, we play The Quiet Game; the first person to talk or laugh or grumble is eliminated. The record set for the longest time belongs to me. I enjoy Highway Bridge, as it provides an opportunity to lie face down on the floor, motionless while children push cars around, up and over them; it’s an improvement on a similar game that adds a sofa, a bouquet of weeds and a certain morbidity I would prefer to avoid. Though in the groggy aftermath of a grandchild sleepover, I understand the appeal.
My friends and I don’t recall the same dynamic with our own grandparents. Cousins played together and washed the dishes after shared meals. We were seen, and undoubtedly heard, when we returned from the attic with Crokinole and Parcheesi but knew to set the card table up a significant distance from the adult conversation. Seventy seemed ancient; less so now that it’s me with that number of candles on my cake.
This summer, we had an audience when the school-age siblings in my care set up an obstacle course in a nearby park. Residents of the adjacent retirement home cheered us on as we ran, bounced and juggled our way to the finish line. From their benches in a pergola, they commend the imagination of the children who created activities from discarded toys in the playground, as well as my ability to complete the route. Way behind the kids. But still.
I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. The games. The children. All of it.
Marg Heidebrecht lives in Dundas, Ont.