SQUINTER’S driving slowly through one of Riverdale’s tight little streets when he spots a couple of boys ahead playing Kribbie. Inevitably, as he sedately passes, the lad with the ball loops one over the roof of the passing vehicle – Squinter seems to remember if the player had hit the kerb with that shot he’d have got two points instead of one.
It got Squinter to thinking – again – about the death of street games, for while the sight of two kids playing the iconic Belfast street game was enough to brighten the darkest day, the smile that it put on Squinter’s face faded a little with the realisation that it only highlighted the sad fact that such a sight is very much a rarity these days.
It’s not the first time – and probably won’t be the last – that Squinter has lamented the passing of al fresco children’s entertainment: Rally-Oh!, Kick-the-Tin, 1-2-3 Red Light. But here’s another street game that hasn’t been documented and yet was played in just about every house in Squinter’s street.
When new gutties were required for the childer, we all got them at the same time: start of summer, new school term, bingo win – occasions like that. Brothers being intensely competitive beings, we were all keen to establish the superiority of the new footwear that had been bestowed upon us. And so we’d pull on the new gutties, lace them up with loving care and outside we’d go for a race.
The winner was never going to be the fastest runner – the winner was going to be the one with the fastest shoes. We’d line up out in the square and, after the usual fussing and fighting over false starts and wrong counts, off we’d bolt, feeling as if we were being powered by some unseen but powerful motor in our pristine new gutties. Then we’d do some jumps, because of course those new gutties could not only make you run like the wind, they could make you leap like an antelope.
Squinter’s not sure that kids do that now with their £100-plus gel-cushioned, gas-injected fashion statements. In fact, he’s fairly sure that by the time a child grows out of them they’re as unmarked as the day they left the factory, given that they’ve spent more time on a sofa than they have on the street.
Squinter’s running days are most likely over, sad to relate (although there’s a standing offer of a return to five-a-side), which means that he will never again appreciate the unalloyed joy (or that beguiling just-bought smell) of pulling on a new pair of trainers. He did buy a sturdy pair of brogues recently which will face up to the rigours of any Belfast winter, but sadly aren’t designed to propel a person along a flat tarmac surface at any appreciable speed; not like a good pair of Sizzlers.
