Michael D. Davis.

Once again, snow is on the ground, and chilly fun is being had by all. Snowmen are being made, snow angels are being crafted, and gladiatorial combat is being had with the snowball.

Growing up, I didn’t usually have someone to have a snowball fight with. My Ma always obliged for a short time, but her heart was never really in it unless you didn’t see the snowball coming. My sister, in a perpetual shiver, tended not to want to go outside. So, that just left my father, the old one, as my only opponent. And the best time to challenge the old man to a fight was when he got home from work.

Before we go any further, allow me to dispel a certain image in your head. This was never like they showed in the movies, where father and son had a gentle game, throwing snowballs about, and in the end, the father accepted defeat. If you think that’s how things went, then you don’t know my father. You see, the old one approaches snowball fights the way Napoleon approached battle. It’s war. The only acceptable end is complete and utter annihilation of the enemy.

Although we used the same weapon, the old one’s were always deadlier. The man made snowballs the size of boots that weighed the same as a small car tire. My snowballs were smaller in size and always oddly shaped. My only advantage is that while he was away at work, I was at home, planning, strategising, and building. I made my fort, I made his fort, the driveway splitting the two down the middle. Yes, I spent a little less time on the construction of his fort, but nevertheless. I then made small piles of snowballs and left them around the yard. None on his side, of course, this was my ammo. The small caches were needed in case I got trapped in a certain corner or section of the yard. I also made sure to make smaller forts behind the main one, so in theory, I could move about protected.

After everything was ready, I had to wait. My father always got home at five. So, as his friend pulled up to drop him off, little did he know I was in my foxhole, armed and ready for the ambush I’d planned all day. As he got out of the truck and started up the drive, I would fire the first shot. If I were lucky, it would hit him in the back or shoulder; if I were unlucky, it would get him below the knee. Usually, I missed him altogether.

Once the battle had commenced, my father would resign himself to behind his fort, where he would find no ammo. This hindered him little, as the old one seemed to be able to make snowballs faster than the snow could fall. Once he was armed, that’s when the trouble began. I’d be lobbing my best stuff over the top of my fort, then out of nowhere, would come this white cannonball.

A snowball that darkened the sky as it flew through the air. My father threw a snowball with the precision of a sniper and the force of a tank. You are left with only two options when one is fired at you: try and avoid it, or get ready for a pine box. As a fat asthmatic, I’ve never successfully avoided a snowball thrown by my father, and I’ve often thought my end was near as they approached.

I’d leave the battlefield cold, red, and defeated. A hunger for revenge brewing in my heart. My father would leave the battlefield feeling like Sergeant York.

One year, I spent a night crafting a special fort, bigger than all the rest. It was at least five feet high. It was slightly shaped like a prism, which ended up being my undoing, when at the end of its construction I attempted to summit it. I got on top and straddled the snow bluff, one leg on each side, and soon realised that my legs were super far apart. I attempted a dismount, but couldn’t get my leg up and over to the other side. I thought about just falling, but I was too scared. So, I sat there, at the top of my homemade mountain, until my Ma came and found me.

I told my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Huebner, that story, and I added in a detail he probably didn’t need to know. Ya see, when I got on top of the bluff there, my pants had come down a little. So, the whole time I was up there, the back of my underwear, my crack, got filled with snow. By the time my Ma found me, I had a completely numb crack. That was nearly 20 years ago now. I still haven’t won a snowball fight against the old one, and my crack is still cold.