When I was a kid, my mom often accused me of being a pack rat. I am mortified to confess that not only have I proven her right, I’ve proven her guilty of grossly underestimating me.
I blame Yellowball.
It’s an innocuous rubber playground ball that takes up very little physical space, but looms large over my conscience. Yellowball has been sitting in my office for three months — long enough to accumulate as much dust as the PROMO 100 files beside it.
Dust goes against the very essence of Yellowball, which was designed (by the Centers for Disease Control and its promotion agency, Arc Worldwide) to keep moving. Kids who get a Yellowball register its code at VerbNow.com, record what they did with the ball, then pass it on to another kid to play, report, and pass it on. By summer, there should be 50,000 Yellowballs traversing the world in one bouncy epidemic of juvenile exercise. And kids can use the code to track their own specific ball, where it goes and how other kids use it.
In theory, it captures my imagination.
In practice, I have flunked Yellowball.
I was pretty pumped when the ball first arrived. I pictured my kids frolicking in the yard, making up some game with a witty name, and then passing the ball on to — who? How could we get the ball far away, fast and make sure it kept moving? The cousins are all over the country, but who could we trust to really do something clever, and then hike our collective Yellowball into an exotic new ZIP code?
I chewed it over for weeks. I have friends in India. That would be cool. On the other hand, my college friend’s kids in Tennessee are about the right age for four-square-cum-computer. But then, my brother in Alaska is quirky; he’d do my Yellowball justice.
I, me, my. You’re starting to see the problem, aren’t you?
And here is my most shameful confession: My own kids don’t even know this ball is here. I’m afraid they’ll want to give it to their own friends, who live in our same ZIP code and play the same games and, well, we aren’t going to score very high in distance or creativity at VerbNow.com, now are we?
So I am a pack rat. But I am also a procrastinator and a control freak. Sorry, Mom.
I vow to give the ball to my kids right after dinner, while it’s sunny and 70 and I am pathetically guilt-ridden. As always, my kids redeem me. My daughter teaches me a four-square move called “Bubble” (throw the ball in the air and clap as many times as you can until you catch it). My son leads a game of “All Stars” (known in most circles as “Catch”), and when the neighborhood kids come over, we play “Gumball Machine” and some crazy combination of lacrosse, soccer and hockey where they all ended up just hitting each other in the shins with sticks.
Then, my son asks for help with his homework: Play with his new football and go online to register it. He writes out a code (Y6644) and a URL: www-dot-easterfootball-dot-org. We can’t find an Easterfootball.org Web site, of course, but when we google “Easter football” we discover a soccer camp in Lanarkshire, U.K.
One of these days, I’m sending our Yellowball over there.