The 11 year old was about to turn 12. We celebrated his birthday with a game of British Bull Dogs.
“Oh I know this” said an American friend, excitedly forming up with the rest of us, behind the line drawn out in the sand.
“It’s just we call it Red Rover Red Rover. One person stands in the middle and tries to tap or tag anyone else running past, from one point to another”
“Errr no, I don’t think that’s quite the same game,” said my 15 year old. “In British Bull Dogs you have to full on rugby tackle someone down into the ground. There’s no tap or tag. Its a full body tackle on the ground”
Just at that moment some one yelled ‘GO’ and we sprinted out from behind the line, screaming our way across to the other side (OK, only some of us screamed our way across)
Out of the corner of my eye I could see the horror on my sweet friends face, as a large Brit ran at speed towards her, launching himself around her waist, pulling her down into the sand. Mayhem spread across the ranks, as bodies were taken down. Sand and spit and screams and dogs and Brits in all directions.
We played until the sun set. “Best Birthday ever,” said Conrad, as guests limped home.
“I’m so glad you thought so” I said, soaking my broken finger on ice.