I hope this nostalgic trip to my childhood backyard might ignite gratitude and fond memories of your favorite places and times.
I grew up in a house with a small backyard, the ordinary kind found behind a home on a city lot. Looking back now, I realize it was anything but ordinary. It was one of those simple places where God quietly tucked away some of His sweetest blessings.
Somehow, that modest patch of ground became a full athletic complex for three boys, a crowd of cousins, and more laughter than any scoreboard could ever measure. We did not know it then, but those ordinary afternoons were gifts of grace.
In the beginning, I was the only player. I threw baseballs against the house and caught tennis balls as they bounced off the roof.
Saturday afternoons became imaginary football games in which I was quarterback, receiver, defender, referee, and, when necessary, the TV sports announcer.
I even tackled myself until fourth down. Then came the game-winning drive where I dodged imaginary defenders, sprinted into the end zone, and celebrated like a stadium full of people had just witnessed greatness.
As the home team added two brothers and more cousins, the games grew with it. Cousin Jimmy was the oldest, so he designed the teams, the rules, and the boundaries. The cousins tackled harder than my imaginary defenders.
The backyard field became more congested. You practically had to step out of bounds to change your mind.
My brother Bill played “lonesome end,” mostly because there was nowhere else for him to line up. Dad said we had to let him play, which was probably the first official commissioner ruling in our family sports league. There was never an agreement about whether Bill lined up in or out of bounds. He was just not allowed in the huddle. That probably contributed to why he is so comfortable on the sidelines now as a coach.
One Christmas morning, a basketball goal replaced the small swing set, and life in the backyard changed forever. Hours of Hoops, almost every day through my prep years. I thought I had received a basketball goal, but in truth, I was given a gathering place for dreams … and brothers.
That small backyard hosted contests in football, basketball, baseball, and occasionally even track, especially when my best friend Mike ran circles to escape my little brother chasing him with a plastic baseball bat.
Through survival skills and Bulldog tenacity, Mike became our other brother. Mom finally got the doctor she hoped for.
Cousin John’s speedy race came to an abrupt finish when he was literally clotheslined in our neighbor’s yard. It was dangerous but memorably funny to everyone. Even throat-slashed John grinned as he declared, “I didn’t see that coming!”
Football was played on every surface the yard offered—rain-soaked grass, blankets of snow, brown winter grass, or sunbaked dirt. Every square foot of turf was important, every obstacle became part of the game, and every contest felt epic.
The victors jumped, the defeated slumped, and all of us went inside carrying grass stains and life lessons like medals. It is better to compete and lose than just live life as a spectator. Effort and encouragement are more inspirational than the unwillingness to face the fear of adversity.
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly… at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.” — Theodore Roosevelt
Our dust, sweat, and blood were not the only casualties of the backyard contests. Baseball brought changes after several home windows were broken. One neighbor’s window also became collateral damage. Another neighbor’s garden, located across the alley behind left field, suffered from our constant retrieval of homerun balls that left our yard.
At some point, baseball shifted to the plastic version, another commissioner mandate. The change saved the windows but not the garden. Nor did it lessen the noise.
One constant nuisance slowed those plastic baseball games: the overhanging telephone wire. Bill had the perfect arm angle to pitch into it, and Joe could hit it just as easily when he batted. If Bill’s throw missed the wire, Joe’s crushing hit found it. The youngsters grinned, the older players groaned, and somehow, we never thought to move the location of home plate.
Strategic thinking was not our strongest attribute.
The dog pen and basketball goal guarded the left field hedge. Center and right field were protected by the neighbors’ towering trees. Still, plenty of home run balls left the backyard, and nothing could quiet the laughter, cheers, shouts, and occasional sarcastic taunts. It was not a perfect place, but God never required perfection to fill a place with love.
The annual backyard fireworks show grew from sparklers and Roman candles to cherry bombs and small rockets fired through a PVC pipe. We blew up toy soldiers, model planes, and T-shirts, and occasionally startled a passing motorist. The next generation was wisely sent to larger, safer spaces. Naturally, they burned the school track.
The backyard also had quieter evenings, when croquet became the older boys’ game of choice. A few times, the contest was played under the stars. Bill earned lasting backyard fame after surviving a heavy croquet ball launched into his chest. I thought that thud might be the last sound he ever heard.
I had no idea how we would explain it to Dad. Mike did ask Bill if he could see in the dark. Crack! Thud! Down goes Frazier! That was the evening when we found out Bill needed glasses.
Even now, I smile at the mercy hidden in that moment: a bruise, a laugh, and a family story that somehow became part of our inheritance.
As the years passed and the cousin count grew, the older players took to playing football on their knees. The plays got more creative, the competition stayed fierce, and the laughter only grew louder. We were aging, technically, but not surrendering.
Basketball moved from the dirt court to the concrete driveway, where a ball always seemed to be bouncing. Anyone driving for a winning layup could expect a rim-protecting shove into the nearby hedge, which gave the bush a long and distinguished defensive career.
A smaller Tyke-sized basketball goal was added to serve as a secondary court for the younger set. After-dark croquet was eventually banned by the commissioner.
In time, the backyard welcomed the grandkids. The games changed as we reluctantly, but happily, handed the playing field to our children and retreated inside to their video games, where our opponents were just as unskilled as we were.
It was comforting to know our athletic limitations had simply gone digital. It was even more comforting to see that joy can pass from one generation to the next when backyard love has been planted deeply.
Later, Dad built a large rock patio behind the house. Mike and I helped haul the heavy stones from Tahona Creek, behind my mother’s childhood homeplace. It was a back-breaking labor of love.
Stone by stone, Dad built more than a patio. He built another place for family to gather, and God blessed it with voices, stories, and sweetness.
That patio hosted Floyd family reunions on rocks where mom’s siblings had walked decades earlier. It was also the landing spot for our family’s near-weekly summer nights of homemade ice cream, where the laughter rose with the heat and the memories settled in forever.
Eventually, the backyard commissioner moved the dog pen to right-center field, and his small garden claimed left field. Strawberries and tomatoes replaced bats and balls, which was probably better for the neighbors’ windows. The American pastime was limited to T-ball for the newest team members.
This backyard has hosted celebrations, heartbreaks, and burnt hamburgers. It has served as a playground, a sanctuary, and a place for reflective thoughts. Despite its smallness of size, this backyard enshrined every version of me … carefree, lonely, happy, hopeful, victorious, defeated, and, most importantly, the dreamer.
Backyard playgrounds become gardens, noise becomes memory, and God keeps teaching us that growth often comes in small, almost unnoticeable steps. One small step for a boy, one giant leap to become a man.
One sad day, as the host team prepared to permanently relocate, Dad led his three grown sons to the small shed now standing in deep center field. The backyard had changed, but somehow every baseline, basketball goal, and boundary marker still seemed to be there.
Memory has a way of keeping sacred ground marked long after the lines have faded.
One by one, Dad pulled out dusty, faded treasures from those early years: gloves, balls, caps, helmets, shoulder pads, jerseys, and memory after memory from a time that had passed far too quickly.
Each item looked smaller in size but larger than life in memory.
I understood then that keepsakes are not really about things. They are reminders of people, seasons, and blessings we were too young to fully recognize at the time.
My favorite football stadium is not the largest Ivy League ones or those of the Sooners, Cowboys, Golden Hurricane, and Fighting Irish. It is not the home of the Buckeyes, Wolverines, Trojans, Nittany Lions, or Bayou Tigers.
That backyard was not overshadowed by the ballparks highlighting the Cardinals, Yankees, Red Sox, Cubs, Rangers, or Astros. It had as much nostalgic glory as the basketball courts housed in the Forum, Madison Square Garden, Boston Garden, or Hoosier Gym.
One little backyard hosted the legends of my past and the glory of my best memories. It was a small place, but grace has never needed much room to do something lasting.
I can still see that little backyard. I still see the kids. I still hear the laughter. I still feel the love.
One small but glorious backyard, filled with wonderful memories and the love of God.
“Those were the days, my friend; we thought they’d never end.”
LOVE FIRST...LOVE MOST 