The transformation of an abandoned grocery store near my house into a trampoline park was a revelation for middle school me. No longer would I have to entertain myself by crawling into drainage ditches, stealing shopping carts, and firing model rockets onto the roof of an abandoned Western Union. My dreams of catching air were within reach; they lay in a nearby Harris Teeter that had been remodeled to become AIR FUN.
In that waning strip mall, between a bail bonds office and a Hawaiian barbecue joint, AIR FUN had the most imposing facade, narrowly trumping the nearby Staples. Inside, however, were not the neon hues and bright lights I had seen at Sky Zone. Instead, the dark linoleum floors, too-dim fluorescents, and exposed brick walls of the former grocery store remained. All the trappings of a trampoline park were there, but with none of the charm. The dodgeball court was fully equipped, but with no one to play. The obstacle course didn’t have a pit of foam cubes to catch you when you fell, but was instead made of plywood covered in thick carpeting. The paint on the basketball hoops was already chipped and the concession stand had already closed for the day. It was disappointing, but it was also only a five minute bike ride and a fifteen-dollar charge for three hours of jumping and a funky pair of non-slip socks. Besides, a trampoline is a trampoline.
AIR FUN naturally became the spot for idle weekends. My friends and I flocked there whenever we were bored. It was always our parents’ first suggestion; at AIR FUN, we were out of their hair, but still close enough to home.
Yet, weekend after weekend of jumping wore us down. We grew tired of the same tricks and games. Our burgeoning senses of style bristled against the lurid socks we wore to jump. We returned to our free range lifestyle.
On the select occasions since middle school where I’ve found myself in a trampoline park, this world-weariness arrives at once. It takes minutes, not hours, for me to grow bored and aimless. In middle school, I could blame my boredom on repeated weekends of jumping or AIR FUN’s low quality, but now there’s no excuse. I’ve simply grown too old and too tired. I don’t get as high as I remember. I get my ass whooped in dodgeball by kids in Fortnite T-shirts. And—as I’ve learned from Emily at the Herald—the foam pits are not bottomless as they once seemed, but shallow and ready to break your ankles. Unless I’m roped into chaperoning another church youth group trip, I will not be returning to a trampoline park anytime soon.
Over spring break, I found that AIR FUN had closed for good. I hadn’t jumped on those weathered trampolines in years, but I nonetheless longed for the heights I once reached there. After I finished my Hawaiian barbecue, I paused for a moment of silent reflection. While I could not conjure the feeling of being suspended in air, I remembered the feeling of coming off the trampolines. I was winded and ready to ride home. But before I put my shoes on, I took a final jump on the bare floor. Gravity felt doubled. My feet fell flat and didn’t rise again. A sudden jolt shot up through my legs and spine. The burden I had briefly shed returned. As I stared at the abandoned AIR FUN, that burden had never felt heavier.
