Morale was high. Intelligence was questionable. And somewhere in the distance, the laws of physics were nervously watching me. You see, dear reader, trampolines are expensive. Offensively expensive. Why purchase a brand-new one when a perfectly good, slightly wounded battlefield relic could be rescued and restored with determination, stubbornness, and only minimal concern for personal safety?

So when our neighbor generously offered us their old trampoline, I accepted the challenge with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what they were getting themselves into. Mistake number one. This thing was not merely “large.” No. This monstrosity was enormous. A metal coliseum. A bouncing titan. A circular beast forged in the depths of suburban chaos itself. And it had to get over the fence.

Now, I had originally imagined perhaps two or three people carefully carrying it into the backyard while inspirational music played softly in the background. Reality, however, laughed in my face. It took EIGHT sturdy men to haul that mechanical demon over the fence.

Eight.

At one point, I am fairly certain the trampoline achieved temporary flight. Someone yelled directions nobody could hear. Another man disappeared briefly into the shrubbery. The fence groaned in protest. Neighbors probably thought we were moving a UFO into the backyard.

But eventually… Victory. The beast had been contained. Now came the restoration phase. The old netting had suffered greatly in battle and was promptly removed along with several damaged support bars that looked one strong breeze away from becoming medieval spears.

“Who needs safety?” I boldly declared. A statement that would later age poorly.

The support legs were a little loose, so reinforcements were necessary. But fear not, dear reader, I did not attempt to weld them myself because I possess at least ONE surviving survival instinct. An adultier adult was summoned for this sacred task while I supervised from what I considered a very safe distance.

Sparks flew. Metal hissed. I nodded occasionally as though I understood welding terminology. The legs were strengthened. Stability restored. Then came the springs. Oh, the springs. Those tiny metal finger-snapping devices straight from Satan’s personal workshop. I discovered very quickly that brushing against them with bare skin feels remarkably similar to being attacked by angry shopping carts. So naturally, I improvised.

Pool noodles.

That’s right. Those colorful flotation devices of summer glory were sacrificed for the greater good. Cut apart and wrapped around the exposed springs like tiny foam armor. Was it elegant? No. Did it work? Surprisingly, yes.

But the campaign was far from over. Because despite my earlier reckless declaration regarding safety… it turns out I DO, in fact, enjoy not being launched into orbit. So the net had to return. Armed with several 10-foot PVC pipes, hose clamps, determination, and what little hydration remained in my body, I began constructing what can only be described as a suburban gladiator arena. The PVC poles were secured around the trampoline frame. A brand-new net was raised skyward like a victorious battle banner.

And let me tell you…

It was HOT.

The kind of hot where your soul leaves your body and watches from nearby shade. I sweated so much I’m fairly certain I lost three pounds and at least half my sanity. My shirt clung to me like wet paper towels. My legs hurt. My back hurt. My hands hurt. At one point I think I physically melted and re-solidified.

But when it was finally done… I stood there proudly.

Exhausted. Sunburnt. Slightly delirious.

But victorious.

The trampoline lives again.

And this battlefield?

Was won.

—Bella Imperia

---