Adam and Greyson have both volunteered as team leaders, standing on either side of me with matching shit-eating grins as I flip a coin. Greyson wins the coin toss, and I turn to filter back into the crowd of choices when Greyson grabs me by the arm.
I lift a brow at him.
“I choose you,” he calls out louder. “Drew’s my first choice.”
Adam doesn’t seem surprised as I take my spot at Greyson’s side. Was I his first choice, too? “I’ll take Gabe.”
The tension builds as Gabe steps forward, shooting me a solemn glance before standing beside Adam.
It doesn’t take long to divvy up the players, and the tension sours.
I can’t put my finger on what’s off exactly, but something is.
Our groups split, and it’s time for strategy. The bigger kids are all excited, ready to run into the fray and start tossing snowballs.
The younger kids aren’t paying attention, but they’re included to have some fun.
Everyone in town knows the little ones are going to end up rolling around in the snow and rounded up by their mothers within the hour.
For the rest, the battle will likely last all day.
Greyson is a mastermind of strategy—it’s the coach in him. Naturally. He bends to include everyone in our huddle.
“I’m calling this the four waves of frost. Every good team wins with rhythm,” Greyson tells them, drawing a quick map in the snow with a stick. “They’ll expect chaos. We’ll give them choreography.”
“Are you seriously preparing drills for a snowball fight?” I ask. He sounds like the version of him I was used to as a teen and pre-teen.
“That’s why we win, Drew. That’s why wealwayswin.”
Yeah, we did always win.
The first wave is the athletic and teens, Greyson included.
Their goal is to rush in hard from the front to draw attention and create the illusion that the whole team is charging.
They sprint down Main Street toward the opposing flag with lots of yelling and snowballs flying.
It’s flashy, noisy, and chaotic.
Adam’s team scrambles to defend, thinking they’re seeing the main assault.
The second wave is kids. And I help organize them.
While the older players are distracted, the little ones sneak around the back route with snowballs pre-packed.
No one expects them to flank or attack.
“Remember, no mercy,” I tell the kids, handing them handfuls of snowballs. “If they’re taller than you, aim for the knees.”
“That’s cheating,” one of them says.
“That’s strategy,” I correct.
They crawl and giggle and take out some of the leftover unsuspecting kids and adults with the knee shots.
The next wave moves in fast. We have to, since getting hit only takes us out for a half hour.
I’m left behind as the last wave sweeps through in their sneak attack to take out the stragglers. I’m aware of Gabe and Adam both hanging back, waiting for me to show myself.
