Air Ball

    I backed into the boys’ room, holding the steaming bowl in both hands. Laura’s second grade class Halloween party was over, and cleanup duty fell to me and the other adults. I dumped the bowl full of water and dry ice into a sink and stood there, waiting for the ice to melt. The sink filled with fog, and, still a kid at heart, I began to play with the fog, waving my hands over it and making it swirl and eddy. On a whim, I stepped back, cupped my hand and waved it in a throwing motion toward the fog. A hole appeared in the fog, looking as if I had thrown something into it. Fascinated, I did it again and the temporary hole reappeared. As I was doing this, a half a dozen boys entered the room. 

    “Whacha doin’?” asked one boy. 

    I made an instant decision. My Halloween prank this year would not involve traditional Halloween themes. 

    “Throwing air balls,” I answered. 

    “Air balls? How do you do that?” He asked. 

    “It’s easy,” I answered, “first you have to grab a handful of air.” I reached up and closed my hand around nothing. “Then you pack it real tight.” I ground my two open palms together as if I were packing a snowball. “Finally, you throw it.” Cupping my hand again, I waved my arm in an overhand throwing motion. Immediately, a round hole appeared in the fog and disappeared. 

    “Wow!” the boys exclaimed, “How did you do that?” 

    “I just showed you,” I answered, “You try.” 

    Each boy took turns standing in my spot, grabbing a handful of air, packing it and throwing. None of them cupped their hand, a step I had intentionally omitted, and nothing happened when they “threw” into the fog. 

    “You’re not packing it tight enough,” I told them. “Let me show you again.” I did it again, making a big show of “packing” the air, and “throwing” with the same results. 

    They tried again and again to throw an “air ball” into the fog, but none of them succeeded.

Knowing that a prompt exit would prolong the mystery, I turned on the tap to melt the dry ice. 

    “Sorry guys, but it’s time to go,” I announced. The last remnant of the dry ice disappeared and with it the fog. 

    “Awww,” the boys chorused as the fog dissipated.

After I stepped out, I paused by the closed door and listened. I heard variations of the same phrase repeated over and over. 

    “How’d that guy do that?”

Bill Bartlett and his wife, Sandi, live in Belton with their two sons.