There never were two sillier, yet more serious, snowball monkeys than Niles and Brandon. Each year, at the first serious snow flurry, they were out there building their snow-forts. The later snow would be for making projectiles, the forts set them up for a whole winter of battles ahead. Before each snowball fight they'd bow to one another like they were still in the dojo, turn stiffly, and walk to their fort. From then onwards there were no rules, no time-outs, no grace at all - just snow warfare at its most intense. They never felt like they'd had enough fun until they were a curious mixture of numb, raw and bruised.
Tina sets the shopping bags down, massaging her fingers while Niles scatters off to make his snowy weapons. His favourite snowball fights are the ones that end in a brawl with his brother, they're the two finest "snowball monkey's" in town. But today his brother has the flu, his comrade in arms shot down by a seasonal bug. Tina turns, shoulders sagging, legs unwilling to bend as fast as the white frosted ground. Part of her brain is chastising the other part that allowed this game in the first place. Without her morning coffee things have just gone from bad to worse and soon she'll have an icy face to wear home.
My lips tinged blue a while ago and my fingers are almost immobile with cold. The gloves from my Nan are so pretty, but they let in the icy water without a fight and my jacket would be better suited to fall. But if I give up now Hank takes home the snowball fight victory and I just don't think I can let that happen. At my feet are perhaps thirty snowballs, their sizing is somewhat chaotic but if I pick the right moment they should get the job done. A win would be so sweet, it'd make the pain of de-thawing my fingers seem worth it.
A snowball fight in the fading light is how we finish the day. Jen ducks down behind an old truck and comes up with a hastily fashioned weapon sitting in her black woollen glove. She's wearing that same face she has when she's got me beat at scrabble, but this is no war of words and I fight dirty - all in the name of "fun" of course. I got snowball fights down to a science when I was a kid, best snowball size, best snowball density, just the right swing in my throwing arm. There's a nagging voice telling me to let her win, that it'll be better in the long run, but I just can't. Snowball fights are war and wars just gotta be won.
Backs against the frozen metal, breath rising in white puffs to the grey snow-cloud above, the Baker boys sit as quietly as they can, snowballs at the ready. After a minute or so, one that felt like an eon, they hear the tell-tale crunch of a boot in the snow; for though it is fresh fallen, the bitterness of the night made the top like brittle caramel. Then the "three musketeers" in hand-me-down winter coats dive out to pelt their father who guffaws and blusters before taking cover. There are times Mr Baker wishes he hadn't taught his boys the art of the "snowball ambush," but there are times he loves catching them unawares himself. Cowering behind the oak in his best work jacket he rolls his eyes, fights aren't meant to be fair, they're meant to be won, but this is hardly the time for the boys to hone in on their first victory.
When a snowball explodes from the front of my parka, I know the fight is on: duck and cover, building a stash, keeping my head down. My woollen gloves pick up snow like they want to be snowballs themselves, frozen crystals dangling from wild loose fibres I'd never normally notice. Already the coldness of the snow has deep chilled my fingers to a point where they no longer wish to bend. But cold or not, a snowball fight is a snowball fight and I don't give in - ever.
Soon another icy ball hits the side of the car I'm hiding behind and another whistles through the air just above my hood. There's a stupid grin plastered over my face as I take my first snowball and whip my arm back to send it flying toward another kid. Impact. I let out a whoop and the fight intensifies. The best thing I can do right now is taunt them into releasing all their missiles and then run out into the open with mine. It works like a charm every time.
Snowball fights were all the rage on our street that winter. Jack and his posse vs me and mine. There were mornings we'd get up early just to build a bigger stack than them. Since we were all such lousy shots having enough ammo was everything. Once in a while one of the other crew would get huffy about it and call us cheats, but Jack never did. I never once saw that kid flinch. If we had ten times the snowballs he did he'd still get right up behind me with the biggest damn snowball you ever saw and get it right down my neck. He was a snow warrior, never giving in whatever we threw at him, I respected that.
The kids in our street would have played with the sunshine if they could have moulded it into projectiles, anything they could get their hands on to cause mischief was alright with them. So the winter snow was the best gift they could ever have. After the first snowstorm you couldn't go to the mailbox without one of them declaring a snowball fight on you, and it wasn't like they gave you a choice. A split second after the obligatory warning a snowball hit the back of your neck, or face if you were unlucky. Toward the end of the season when all that lay on the ground was icy muck it paid to wear as much protection as you could without looking like an idiot.
Fresh fallen snow only meant one thing to Dad - a snowball fight! So the morning after the first few inches of snow had fallen I awoke to find him hovering over my bed. His face was stretched into a grin so wide it should have fallen right off his face. "C'mon sport! Outta that cart, there's snow, lots and lots of the white stuff just waitin'." He's such a big kid. Part of me wants to tell him I'm a teenager, that I'm too old for all this, but there's something in his enthusiasm that's irresistible. In less than ten minutes we're kneeling in the pristine white blanket that covers our street, him behind one parked car and me behind another. When twenty snowballs are made and stacked round one begins, the first of many...
"Snowball fight!" yells Troy, and in that instant Ben knows he has a whole stack ready to pelt him with. In seconds of the warning the air is thick with snowballs so compacted that several feel solid and icy. The ones from the fresh fallen flakes burst open on impact, showering crystalline fragments that glint in the wintry light. Seconds later Ben is behind his Dad's old jeep, gloved hands in the snow, frantically making a stockpile to retaliate with. From the lull in the action he knows Troy is doing the same to replenish what he already used. "You're gonna loose, Ben!" he taunts from behind a garden wall.
"Yeah, Troy? Wanna bet?" comes the still out of breath voice of Ben. "Game on, sucker! You're going down!"
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