"Can we play that game, the one we played last time?” 

I offered a puzzled look to the young daughter of a friend and tried to remember.

Frozen tag? 

No. 

Red Light, Green Light? 

No. 

Simon Says?

No.

Red Rover? 

Yes!

“Sure,” I said. “Go get the rest of the kids.” 

A minute later, a small army of children, joined by a few adults, came running to the backyard of my son’s Deer Park home. We were there to celebrate his birthday, so games seemed in order.

"I want to play,” my grandson, Harrison, shouted. 

Play we did. 

Now, in case you have no idea how to play Red Rover, a staple of my Seattle childhood, it's pretty simple.

You split up into two teams and line up facing each other from a distance of about 10 yards. Then, you decide who gets to go first. Once that is done, you’re ready. 

One side spreads out and holds hands, forming a human chain. Then, you call someone over with a chant of sorts to try and break through a pair of hands. It goes like this: 

“Red Rover, Red Rover send Johnny right over.” 

With a running start, the chosen person charges across and tries to break through a pair of hands. If they do, they pick an opposing team’s player and bring them back to their own. If they don’t, they join the other team. This continues until one team is still standing.

The kids love hearing their name called. Our grandson, Harrison, absolutely beams, a big smile and determined look as he makes a mad dash, ready to go through a brick wall if necessary. 

His younger brother, Beau, the 3-year-old who is supremely confident that he can do anything and fears nothing, several times charged out to meet the oncoming player, ready to tackle and stop them cold until we convinced him that’s not allowed. He wants the rules changed.

After a while, we even had most of the adults playing Red Rover, and soon we had young and old running back and forth, some staying put, some returning with a conquest to add to their numbers.

It was quite comical when one of the kids literally got clotheslined, but shook it off and hopped right up. In another instance, two kids were clenching hands a bit too close together and the oncoming player crashed into a chest and sent Harrison sprawling backward into the ground. After a few tears, he bounced back, anxious for payback.

In a day when kids are easily entertained by video games, TV and high-tech toys, I love sharing the old-school ones. Kids love it when adults play with them. Frozen tag is wildly popular, but exhausting and I find myself gasping for air after a few minutes, surrounded by smiling kids, all still running free.

The other day, I was chasing Harrison and Beau at the McEuen Park playground. They love this. Every now and then, I would sneak up and catch them by surprise. Their faces would light up and they would bolt screaming away, run up steps and down slides and around corners to escape.

After a few minutes, more kids asked if they could play. 

“Chase me,” one child cried.

So it would go.

I had to smile as I watched our game of Red Rover under a setting sun come to an end, with everyone kind of piling up into a heap, laughter filling the air. Adults, for a few seconds, had been joyously transported back to childhood.

As for the winner, I don't think there was one.

On this day, or ever, winning was never the point of Red Rover.

It was the joy of locking arms, calling a name, holding on tight and watching a boy or girl charging toward you, a glint in their eyes.

The words still echo in my head.

"Red Rover, Red Rover send Billy right over."

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected].