MEMORIAL DAY IS A HOLIDAY in which we honor the service and sacrifice of all of the great fallen patriots in every American war from 1775 until the present day. We honor these men and women with parades, speeches and wreath laying ceremonies at thousands upon thousands of small town American war memorials.

And then after these dignified and heartfelt services have been concluded by midday, most Americans retire to their backyards or favorite picnic places for a barbecue and to see who will get liquored up and injured before nighttfall playing backyard sports like horseshoes, badmitten or volleyball.

An ankle makes an exquisite and sickening sound when it snaps under the weight of an out-of-shape middle aged man wearing sandles and brown socks during a volleyball game he has enthusiastically entered into in the wine-addled confused memory that he is both young, athletic and has actually leaped more than four inches off the ground in the past five years.

This memory of what happened to a colleague haunted me as I took the grassy court in a backyard volleyball game at a friend's house in Bensalem during a Memorial Day barbecue. My long-haired leaping gnome days are well behind me, cemented, you might say, when both my knees were sawed off, sanded down and replaced by surgical steel hinges. Still, except for the pale foot-long Dr. Bartolozzi scars running down the middle of my legs, you'd never know I was thisclose to being on a walker before surgery. Some people still confuse me for an athlete.

And yet Memorial Day is about sacrifice and suds and after several bottles of the latter, I timidly agreed to partake in this timeless American pasttime known as risking injury for no good reason. The grassy playing surface was dimpled with holes dug by the household dog and patched with fresh moist mud. I almost felt like shouting, "We who are about to cry, salute you." Meanwhile, the dog, who could play goalie for Argentina so quick was he to dart to and fro at ankle level after a slobbery tennis ball, looked like the very premonition of disaster.

And so, let the games begin.

I am pleased to report that no adult or child was seriously injured in the commission of this fun (although Tom had to play one-handed most of the day after having his fingers jammed blocking a spike). Afterwards, our host, Steve pointed to the other piece of backyard for-amusement-only equipment. "Clark, you ready for the trompoline?"

MEDIC!!!