A Ball on a Saturday

What an amazing invention. The ball. Small, hand-sized for hurling. Larger team-sized for sharing and competing. Those which need a bat or a racket or even a cue. Those which are light and those which for their size are remarkably heavy. The right three and some patience and you can juggle. An English perfectly horizontal large lawn, hoops, the back-drop of a splendid manor house and a slightly incomprehensible game. A dusty square in France, some tables scattered with the odd glass of Ricard and the sharp 'click' of boules. A toddler loves a ball: most things (apart from the family dog) just sit there, but a ball rolls and rolls and best of all adults chase. Balls change mood: the book is going nowhere, she hasn't sent a text for 36h and it continues to rain? Take a ball, find a wall and do a Steve McQueen 'in the cooler'. Sick of the gym? Gather for five-a-side and feel a whole lot better. A ball keeps you strong as you lift and throw a medicine ball. If you are a real hero you can try cross-fit 'wall-balls'. A ball keeps you mobile as you manipulate it around your body without dropping at ever increasing speed. A ball gives you imperative as you hurl it long and high down the field on that early cold morning, deciding how best to tackle quarter 1.

Give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, feed him for a lifetime.

Give a man a ball, he's happy. Teach a man to play ball, he's content for life.