Feel free to disagree, but foosball is a ridiculous game; waste of time. It’s because the direction of play is side-to-side and the players stand out of bounds and above the table. It’s not that I’m bad at foosball, it’s that I’ve never wanted to get better. Now that I’m a writer, I realize the point of view, the narrative distance, is too great to hold my interest.
When a kids’ camp asked Aledo United Methodist Church for help in fabricating a human foosball court, the men’s group said, “Sure, we’ll do it.” The Church welcomes everybody, with the men’s group even putting up with somebody like me.
Nestled inside a bend of the shallow Paluxy River at Glen Rose, cliffs on the other side, Glen Lake Camp allows kids to be outdoors with friends and to find themselves and their place in the world. The underfunded camp charges modest fees and never turns away a camper who can’t afford it. The thinly stretched, full-time staff has captured our hearts, and we try to assist as we can.
Not that we’d heard of human foosball. No problem. Daran Miller, camp director, provided the plans. We were to build a corral large enough to hold a dozen players kicking a ball into a goal at either end. Imagine mini-soccer but crowded.
Human foosball is a phenomenon. Can’t say if it’s a huge phenom or a tiny one. Some build the corral from stacked hay bales. Others use wood fences or walls of vertical wood pallets.
Our plans called for a metal corral. Kris Grimland, who knows a lot about metalwork, heavy equipment, and shares not just the name but the generosity of Santa, remarked the corral was over-engineered. We were to use 3 inch by 3 inch metal tubes, material so heavy it takes two to lift a length.
We spent part of a day at the shop of another generous friend, Larry Chapman, cutting the tubes to length, grinding the sharp edges, and trimming the heavy-duty hog panels, a stiff wire mesh meant to contain ticked-off feral hogs weighing hundreds of pounds. Larry arranged for welders to fabricate the rectangular sides of the corral, saving us hours of work.
After spending a Friday night at camp, we unloaded the heavy welded panels. We aligned them and drilled holes to bolt them together. Larry had already drilled some holes in his shop, which helped because field drilling through metal is physical work. The spinning bit sits on the metal, ever so slowly biting into the material. Jimmy Britton manhandled the drill. Despite wearing gloves, he took skin off the back of a hand against the hog panels.
Naturally, our thoughts returned to PVC plastic, and how nice it would have been to work with PVC, which drills like butter. Amanda Garza, one of the camp staff, stopped by and I asked her if kids really play human foosball. My thinking was not only was this thing over-engineered, but it had the makings of a fad. Play today, empty corral tomorrow. She said her own kids loved it, but she only had experience with PVC. Hah! Someone to reaffirm our own thoughts.
The upper ends of the hog panels protruded as sharp-edged snags. Several of us ground them down. Scott Sadler sent a shower of burning grit my way. He discovered how annoying he was and adjusted on the fly. I thought I did a good job for a grinding novice until I saw Jimmy Britton’s work. I went back over my section a second time.
We drilled holes on the top of the panels. I’da thought drilling with gravity would be easier than drilling sideways, but it was harder, and soon, despite Jimmy/Kris helping by putting weight on the bit to push it through, I was worn out, arms shaking. I asked Charlie, another of the camp staff assisting us, if he’d played the game. Because there’s nothing more reaffirming than having two people agree PVC was the way to go. He said not only was it fun, the opposing team told him, “Ya’ll came to play, didn’t you.” I’d get no PVC vote from Charlie.
We laid casing pipe, the small stuff used in oil wells, on top, spanning side to side. Unlike flexible PVC, casing pipe is stiff and takes two to lift. Every component in this corral took two or more guys to lift, slide, shimmy, pry, clamp, and bolt. Charlie had fabricated PVC sleeves, painted with team orange and blue for the players to grab. We threaded the pipe through and secured each end. As we slowly drilled, fitted, and secured the cross-pipes, I mentioned we needed to break the corral in after we finished. Don Sorensen tossed in a shiny new soccer ball. I kicked it out of the way to avoid tripping.
The other crews from our group, new friends and old, came by to gawk, breaking from their tree-trimming, sawing, dirt work, and other jobs the short-staffed camp needed done. They’d stopped on their way to the cafeteria. They said, “No need to hurry because a couple hundred kids are lined up for lunch.” Indeed, the camp seemed to fill during the morning.
We finished drilling the last hole, laying the last pipe, tightening the last U-bolt, and broke for lunch. The cafeteria was close, the walk long from oncoming stiffness in muscles we writers who are proficient at keyboards rarely use. We ate camp food, designed to feed many mouths quickly, and sauntered out again, determined to wrap it up. I mentioned the corral was near ready for us to break it in. As our creation came into view, we discovered the other crews were already breaking it in for us. Our friends hadn’t asked us for permission.
Mayo Tubbs, the guy who put the trip and projects together, inexplicably played on a team of two against five. The odds seemed unfair, so I joined in, weaving among the players, ducking under pipe stout enough to raise a welt to a forehead. Opposing players stood only a few feet in front, hands on their colored segments, and a few feet in back.
Just like table foosball, the ball zips in the small spaces, with point blank kicks, carom shots off the sides. I didn’t know the rules, but heard them explained on the fly, “You have to keep both hands on your color.” Unlike table foosball, there is no narrative distance, players are immersed in the action. The stiff hog wire led to faster caroms, the cross pipes of oil well casing provided support for swinging under to extend leg reach.
In a game where scoring wasn’t kept, of three against five, Mayo, Bob Todd, and I came to play.
Human foosball’s a total blast and I’m glad we didn’t make it out of wimpy PVC. I can’t wait to go back to Glen Lake Camp, where the all metal corral will remain standing for years to come.
An edited version of this story appears in the Substack newsletter https://trialsbywriting.substack.com.
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