Back when I was in high school, when summers were long, humid days spent with friends, working hard or hanging out, I didn’t realize what I would miss later in life. But I suppose that’s how it always is, and maybe how it’s designed to be.

In those days before real responsibility, my friends and I used to play street hockey. Now an artifact of the late ‘90s, a mere 30-second memory built of old Sunny D commercials, street hockey (or inline skating in general) is sadly past its glory years. Hockey is the organized neighborhood football games that our parents’ generation waxes about. Both will likely seem odd to our future children, though it won’t stop us from reminiscing.

Before we had jobs our pick-up games were infrequent, as the ability to mobilize teams required agreeable mothers willing to drive across the city. Once armed with our own transportation though, our games became a mainstay of evening activity. Matt and I, bruised and tired after delivering drywall and steel, would trek over to Perrysburg and unload at Jason’s house. Tyler would ride down the street and Andy would join us at the parking lot behind the school. There were others, irregulars, that filled out the teams as well, but it never mattered to us if sides were evenly stacked. Flipping over metal drum trashcans to serve as goals, we’d clear the court of debris. I would park my car at the far end, pull the speakers out of the old Reliant and place them on the roof. Hours of Pennywise or Bad Religion thrashed as our soundtrack to these youthful games. We’d wrap sticks with filthy tape, tighten wheels and keep a sharp eye for cops.

I never remember who won or lost, as that was never the point. Even in the heat of competition, I sensed that no one was really out for blood. Atypical as this was for teenage male behavior, it made sense with my friends. There were nights that ended in injury, some terminated by ennui and others that came to a close when the sunset extinguished usable light. In truth I guess the games were simply meant to pass the time, to pass those excruciatingly boring nights that to a teenager were equal to death. We were staving off the following day’s work. And yet the hours we had to ourselves and with each other never seemed quite as precious as they do looking back.

I suppose it’s how it always is, how it’s perhaps designed to be: what seems a curse when you’re young becomes the fodder for nostalgia in later years. Most of us today would likely pay a fortune to have those warm nights back, to be free until next daybreak. So now when I’m at home after work, after watering plants and washing floors, all I can do is look back and put on those old Pennywise albums. These nights aren’t nearly as memorable, but I can still push back the clock, at least for a little while.