I THOUGHT I had encountered every bizarre form of recreation the human race could create. Then I discovered the Zorb.
No, it’s not the evil alien mastermind in the next George Lucas blockbuster. Nor is it the latest epithet to be hurled against a driver with more horsepower than IQ, though I can see the possibilities: “Learn to drive, you zorbin’ moron!”
No, the Zorb is nothing less than ... a human-sized hamster ball. That’s right, a big, clear, inflatable sphere that you climb into and roll uncontrollably around in the landscape.
Wow! A new way to induce nausea! Thanks, Mr. Wizard!
According to Web reports, the Zorb has been a hit in New Zealand for about seven years but is only just now making its way here. The first Zorbing range in the United States is supposed to open this year in Pigeon Forge, Tenn.
(Zorbing range? Now it really sounds like Star Wars: “Lock in your proton torpedoes on the main reactor ... estimate zorbing range ... and FIRE!”)
Crazy? You bet. Which means it’ll probably go over big.
Let’s face it. When it comes to games and sports, our species is nothing if not inventive. We’ll smash cars up in demolition derbies. We’ll throw cow chips into waiting buckets. We’ll even ... dare I say it? ... humiliate ourselves on reality TV.
Heather and I once whiled away a medical appointment by watching the “lumberjack games” on one of the sports channels. And now I’m even given to understand that there are people out there who play vacuum-cleaner Quidditch. Yes, the Harry Potter game with the flying broomsticks.
Given all that, what’s a Zorb or two between friends?
Maybe I should be fearing for the sanity of our species. But I can’t stop smiling. After all, they’re only proving what my sisters and I have known since childhood: anything can become a game if you try hard enough.
Our most conventional invention was probably basement baseball, played in our unfinished basement with a Whiffle ball and the yard-long stick from our sliding glass door. A good batter could put the ball under Dad’s workshop equipment, a surefire home run.
“Commercials” was more of a cerebral game. Each player wrote down five products, preferably imaginary or absurd, put them all in a bowl and drew one. You then had to do an instant 60-second commercial for whatever you drew, which could get interesting if you were trying to pitch life-size inflatable rafts or perhaps press-on nails shaped like soccer balls.
But the peak of our inventiveness — and possibly our recklessness, too — was blackout tag. This also was played in the basement. We closed the basement door, turned off every single light, then got down on our hands and knees in the impenetrable darkness.
The rules were the same as regular tag, but you had to crawl instead of run. As you felt your way through the room while trying not to give away your position, stealth was at a premium.
Alas, caution was not. I ran face first into the leg of a desk and the game was over. It remains the stupidest black eye I have ever acquired, one that was nearly impossible to explain at Longs Peak Junior High School. (“You did WHAT?”)
So I’m hardly one to criticize the more eccentric games. In fact, I think they may underline something that the “big sports” have been forgetting for years: games are supposed to be fun.
You don’t need mega-salaries or TV ratings or drug problems to have a sport. A few pleasantly deranged friends and some free time will work just fine. That’s how we all started and it’s still kind of a pleasant place to be.
I offer my best wishes to the Zorb. Long may it roll.
After all, you have to admit that its creators are really on the ball.
Scott Rochat’s e-0mail address is rochat@emporiagazette.com.