Men as well as children have need of play—that is to say, of periods of activity having no purpose beyond present enjoyment. But if play is to serve its purpose, it must be possible to find pleasure and interest in matters not connected with work. — Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens (Man the Player).
Reading Huizinga’s words immediately pulls me backward into the purest corners of memory. It makes me want to pull my old ball glove out of the closet and find someone to play catch, to track down a quiet basketball hoop just to shoot baskets, or to find a blank brick wall and hit a tennis ball against it. Most ball sports offer these beautiful, solitary avenues—moments where it is just you, the ball, and the rhythm of the game.
As a young kid, I used to throw hard rubber balls against the side of the house for hours. In my mind, I wasn’t just throwing against brick; I was striking out the greats in the bottom of the ninth of the World Series, or sinking the winning free throw as the buzzer expired. Whether we are seven or seventy, play instantly unlocks the imagination and feeds our innate creativity.
In fact, play is so foundational that we can see it in the divine. God at play designs the whimsical brilliance of an octopus or the majestic sweep of an eagle. Who among us hasn’t watched them and wanted to fly, to swim like a porpoise, and dreamed of the impossible?
Play should never be a luxury we outgrow, nor a kingdom exclusive to the young. It is as vital to the mature adult as it is to the grandchild.
For it is in these purposeless, joyful moments that we shake off the heavy armor of our daily obligations. When we play, we do not merely escape reality—we reconnect with the wonder of being alive. To pick up the glove, to throw the ball, to dream without boundaries is to remember that we are never too old to participate in the joyous, ongoing masterpiece of creation.
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