APRIL 24, 2025 | FEATURES | By Anya Jones (Staff Writer)
Yes, it’s been a while. That’s not to say I haven’t been observing. I’ve seen trees of green, red roses too, boys dancing with the intensity of a middle schooler playing Magic the Gathering, a girl spending over $40 on a concerning array of shooters, a group of four friends on a corner in matching baseball caps that read “KEEF” across the top. I’ve seen a Danish international student show a group of girls “all the things [he] can do with [his] tongue,” and heard a blacked-out forty-year-old woman call herself an oompa loompa. Spring break happened, Fun Run happened, we witnessed possibly the best Dance Workshop in history, the CC club baseball team (yes we have one of those) is going to regionals and Women’s Lax is ending the season with a 16th overall ranking, which is ridiculously high. A lot has happened.
However, this week, I chose the brief and banal interaction I witnessed on Sunday afternoon in the Commons Park in Denver, Colo. After an enthusiastic and mercifully short Rockies game, it only made sense to continue to chase the sun to a nearby park with freshly cut grass and a view of a haphazardly constructed modern art piece otherwise known as “office space.” On said patch of freshly cut grass under a pleasant amount of sun, a group of 10 played the most millennial game of volleyball I’ve ever seen; it was volleyball, but at a noticeably lower speed. They were invested in the aesthetics, as millennials are. They set up a court and a net, and they were hitting a Wilson ball. But that’s about as far as the talent extended. Although they would have made great subjects for a column such as this, they are not what was most interesting about this patch of grass.
I sat watching my friends knock a homemade hacky sack around. By homemade, I mean made of two baby socks, an eyeballed amount of rice and a broken rubber band. It works remarkably well. I looked away for a moment, having a conversation of my own. When I looked back at the group, something was different. For a moment, I couldn’t place it. The sack was darting around the circle as it had been before, yips, exclamations and obscenities still audible. Then I saw it. He was wearing a grey lifeguard hoodie, shorts that went to his knees, ankle socks and a backwards cap. He had the beard of a man his age. Thirty, that is. A thirty-year-old Denver-ite, in the flesh. In the time I had looked away, exchanged a few sentences, and looked back, this man had a.) introduced himself, b.) politely asked to join the Sack Circle and c.) established himself as an absolute unit at hacky-sacking.
I love my friends. They are kind and welcoming. They’re playful and reflective. They are unashamed and deeply caring. Something they are not, though, is particularly old-looking. I have no eloquent way of putting that. They simply look younger than their respective ages. For example, in a 7-Eleven, they were all instructed to show their IDs while attempting to purchase an 18-pack of Michelob Ultra because they “all look like [they’re] twelve.” They don’t look like children, they just don’t scream 23. So the image of this clearly older man throwing his entire body behind his motions in a circle full of boys who appear to be half his age, doing something colloquially referred to as “sacking,” made for a fascinating portrait.
I asked myself a few questions at this moment. I first considered the fact that there was no one else around him, suggesting he was here on his own. On a walk? On a phone call? Looking for friends? He lives in Denver, which screams, “I have no personality, but I’m desperately trying to make one.” His sacking abilities are mesmerizing, which #1.) is confusing because he looks like he would get systematically beaten in four square and #2.) makes me think he enjoyed soccer as a youth, or went to a fellow sacking school. Regardless, all signs point to taking oneself a bit too seriously. I hate to overuse a trope, but I swear to God his name had to be Brad. Everything down to the slight outward tendency of his ankles. This grasping at intangible coolness. Grasping so hard that he fell over the weight of his own outstretched arm into a completely different direction.
Brad makes good money (sporting Vuori), but has no significant other (alone in a park on 4/20). He loves the water, though he has never actually been in it (grey Lifeguard hoodie). He knows his age. This one is important. Most people, once they reach 28, forget how old they are. When one is having a crisis of aging, it’s more convenient to forget. Although Brad, a man, asked to join a circle of boys, he stayed for approximately two minutes. Missing college and the feeling of being alive, Brad saw an opportunity and took it. He played his heart out and then thanked the boys for their welcoming generosity. He didn’t stay too long. It was a beautiful instance of connectivity. Something I’m sure frequent sackers are used to, as the game lends itself to interactions such as these. So, in a sense, this is an appreciation letter to sacking because it gave Brad a glimpse of effortless companionship.