The Runaway Balls

One spring morning, a neighbor five houses up the street from us, called to tell us they found the smaller of two of our large stone balls in their yard early that morning.  It had been rolled up the hill overnight and abandoned where it sat.  They figured whoever took it either tired of rolling it, or were scared off.  We took a cart, dragged the ball home, and placed it in the backyard for safe keeping.  Later I remembered I had seen a young boy fooling around with the ball a few nights before when I was returning from an evening stroll.  He was walking his dog at the time and I figured he was just curious.  I soon became fairly certain he was at least one of the ball rollers.  

And a few days later, I saw a man  pass our house with that same dog the boy had. I asked the man if he had a son about 11 or 12, he said he did. I told him about the big (expensive) stone ball that had been taken from my front garden and rolled up, not down, the hill. He laughed and said, “Well, you know, boys will be boys!”  He said that his son had another boy spend the night and they probably had sneaked out.  He then proceeded to reminisce about some of the crazy things he had done as a boy.  Oh please!  So the next day, we hired someone to sink the bigger ball into the garden bed until it looked more like a giant eyeball and couldn’t be moved.

Fast forward five years. Our doorbell chimed at 6 A.M.  There was a handsome giant motorcycle cop at our door. He asked if we owned a big stone ball, before we could wake up enough to answer, he added, “It just took out a rock mailbox and a Camaro.”  

After we quickly dressed, my husband headed down the hill and I walked behind with the deputy. The vandals, it seemed, had rocked the large ball out of the bed until they could roll it to the middle of the street, and then pushed it down the hill. (We live on a very steep hill).  Three doors down it hit the big stone mailbox, then gathered speed by the time it rolled further down the hill and hit the car.  The neighbors said it sounded like a bomb went off.  While we were looking at the damage to the mailbox, I asked the deputy if he thought we were going to be responsible, thinking this was going to be very expensive. He said no, that we were vandalized just like the others, and that the vandals had also smashed mailboxes one street over just before dawn. I told him about the smaller stone ball and how we had since kept it in the backyard because some little twerp had stolen it years before and his dad thought it was so amusing. 

So we walked further down the hill, and there parked facing downhill at the curb was a new black Camaro, trunk and back bumper smashed in from the first hit. The ball had then bounced off and rammed the car again, crimping the left fender and wedging itself between the curb and the driver’s door. The car was pretty much a mess.

The tall young man that owned the car was sitting on the curb, head in hands. I could just imagine how awful this was for him and not just because he was going to be late for school.  I stepped up and told him how sorry we were about his car and that we’d have the ball removed as soon as possible.  I don’t remember what he mumbled, but I then asked, “Do you still have that blue spotted dog?” And he simply replied, “Yes . . . ” I walked over to the deputy and whispered, “That new Camaro belongs to the little twerp who stole my other ball five years ago!”  The deputy really, really laughed and said, “What goes ‘round, comes ‘round!”

My husband and I were still trying to figure how we’d ever get the ball out from between the curb and the car, keep it from rolling further, and haul it up the steep hill again.  The deputy volunteered that he’d take care of it. He explained that when he went out on a call at that time of the morning, it was usually a bad wreck or domestic violence. He considered this one a “good call.”  So he radioed the fire department to come.  And the rescue rappellers, who just happened to be at the station getting ready to go out to train on the cliffs, came also. Another deputy drove up to offer assistance, too.  They secured the ball with ropes, strapped it to a cart, and the cops and the firemen hauled it up the hill and into our backyard where it joined the smaller ball.

A few days later the young man’s dad called and insisted we pay for the car damage. He said his son could not file another claim or he'd lose his insurance.  I referred him to our insurance company, who told him it was not our fault.  The insurance company later told us he had been extremely rude and obnoxious. 

The father soon showed up at our door one afternoon when I was alone and threatened to sue us if we didn’t pay for the car repairs!  I was a little uneasy with him waving the estimate in my face, but I did tell him again we knew we were not responsible.  I also reminded him that his son had stolen the first ball, and that would probably be brought up in any court proceeding.   He left in a huff. We didn’t hear from him again.  That would be the end of the story, except . . . 

The very next week, we had a terrific storm and a huge tree limb crashed down on the Camaro where it was still parked in the street!  Karma.