Best Outdoor Games

Nell Matulavich stood barely 5 feet tall and, as I recall, strolled to the outfield in a floral print dress and simple white flats on the day she made her legendary, leaping, bare-handed catch. She was not the playful type and had never once, within my eyesight, exhibited such cat-like grace. It’s one of those shimmering plays that lives on in memory for my brothers, my cousins, and me, the astonishing sight of our quietly reserved grandmother launching skyward to snare that screeching line drive in shallow right. I don’t recall the score, but I’ll never forget the crack of the bat, the flight of the ball, and the wonder that rippled through the ranks in the moments that followed. And that is the magic that a low-cost, tried-and-true Wiffle bat and ball set can deliver to your family picnic. —Chris Raymond

One of my favorite memories is teaching my kids how to throw a Frisbee, out in the yard. The magic of mastering that flick of the wrist never gets old. And learning to catch? That’s a whole ’nother kind of high. We live on a big shared property and would get multiple Frisbees going (and non-branded discs, too)—back and forth and criss-crossy—with friends. All ages, all skill levels, delightfully casual chaos. It happened without a plan. Not something you can schedule or conjure. That’s the best kind of summer fun, I think. The kind that happens when one person makes eye contact with another, takes aim, and sends an unexpected Frisbee (or beach ball or volleyball) sailing—and one parent, regardless of how disorganized her garage might be, always has eyes on the Frisbees. —Danielle Claro

KanJam is the one yard game my friends and I return to year after year. Step into almost any outdoor gathering and you’ll find the Kans set up, silently enticing players away from the snacks and beverages. All it takes is just a mention: “I see the Kans are out.” Ears perk up, eyes get that glimmer, and the competition is on! Before you know it, people are moving their chairs to watch the action. You feel the rush with every successful throw. Three-point "slams" through the top? Almost as satisfying as a playground dunk. And then, there’s the laughter at botched throws and failed dives, the clutch saves, and the game-ending strikes into the kan. It requires a bit of finesse, but when you’re in the zone, tossing the disc with just the right power, there’s no stopping you. —Patrick Van Tassell

The moment those plywood boards and bean bags emerge from the garage, there is a fundamental shift in my DNA. I return to my full Midwestern self—Northern Wisconsin accent, Cubs hat, a sudden craving for fried cheese curds. The works. For even as other regions of the country try and claim it as their own, cornhole remains our sacred sport, ticking all the boxes for the perfect summer game. The deceptive simplicity of the setup: just twenty paces from board to board—though official regulations insist on a precise 27 feet. Fun for all ages. Stakes that are just high enough to spark "friendly" competition—and a healthy dose of trash talk—among the neighborhood ringers and creative cheaters. But most importantly, the game respects the holy rhythm of the ultimate summer afternoon; Yacht Rock playing in the background, and one hand always free to clutch a glass of rosé or a Coors Light. There is magic in watching a bean bag sail through the humid air—Too much force! Not enough power!—and land with that signature thud on the wood or (if you are lucky) pass right through the hole to hit the freshly mowed grass below. It is a ritual of joy that, more than any calendar date, signals the true arrival of summer. —Michael McCormick

It’s all about the sound. And by that I mean the reason why, with all due respect to my colleague Michael McCormick, I’d rather play horseshoes than cornhole. Now, there’s nothing wrong with cornhole. It’s a game for people of all ages. Plenty portable. If you’ve got kids or animals around, tossing beanbags is relatively safe. And if you get really good at cornhole, you can actually turn pro. That said, as an object, the horseshoe is special. It has, well, history. The first metal horseshoes date back to the Roman Empire in the first century B.C. For eons, they’ve been made by hand, forged from molten steel, then beaten to the right shape on an anvil by a blacksmith with a hammer. And if you want to fast forward a little, handling a horseshoe can transport you to the vistas of a John Ford Western or the manicured polo fields of "The Great Gatsby." And unlike a beanbag, there’s a subtle architecture to a throwing horseshoe. It’s weighted toward the tips, and some have a ringer-breaker. A what-er what-er? The ringer breaker is the gentle bump inside the U that helps keep the shoe from bouncing out if it hits the stake straight on. And the ringer—which is when you wrap the horseshoe around the spike—gets its name from the rewarding, resonant clang that results from shoe on stake. In the end, it’s all about the sound. —Allen St. John

The annual ritual of erecting our badminton set marks the unofficial start to spring and summer in our household—in much the same way the tree at Rockefeller Center signifies the start of the holiday season. It’s our way of saying we’re confident the worst weather is behind us, and we are oh so ready to enjoy some time outside as a family. The magic seems to lie in its ability to draw in kids of all ages, from our game-for-anything 9-year-old to our older children, home from college for the summer, not to mention any number of their visiting friends. Afternoons are spent competing in round robin tournaments, and dinners—often eaten against the backdrop of the badminton court—are spent rehashing each point, as after-dinner rematches are planned. Our current set, made by Baden, is in its 8th season and has held up remarkably well. I also appreciate that it’s relatively easy to break down when I need to cut the grass or bring it into the garage before a looming afternoon thunderstorm. —Paul Hope

If you’re inviting New Yorkers to a cookout in New Jersey, you must always make sure the food and music are worth the drive. If said New Yorkers are West Indian, well, you’d better make sure there are dominoes on hand. My parents never explained those rules, but they never had to. Growing up, family and friends would flock to our South Jersey home for our annual backyard barbecue, and within the first hour of being there, guests would gather around an old laminate top folding table with rusty steel legs to play “bones.” We kept the four-seater on hand for this very purpose. Though we had an inground pool that spanned three-fourths of our backyard, the main attraction was always that dominoes table. Soca and calypso filled the air, but it was never competition for the sound of dominoes aggressively hitting the table with a thump, and trash-talking in that warmly familiar dialect that distinctly calls back to Caribbean shores. As long as Auntie and Uncle are hosting a backyard bash, expect to find a table of four, slamming those black and white tiles, well into the night. —Tanya Christian

Every July 4th, I replay those hallowed childhood memories like a summer soundtrack on crackled vinyl. I can vividly see, hear, smell, and taste the family fun—charcoal-smoked chili dogs, Motown hits, Wiffle ball, and firecrackers. I usually kicked off my “independence” day by cutting the backyard grass with golf-course precision on Dad’s moss green riding mower, which, of course, matched his 1967 Ford Fairlane. The man had a connoisseur’s appreciation for cards, too. When I turned 9, he taught me how to play Pinochle, a French-inspired trickster game that I initially called “Pinocchio.” And so, I fondly flash back to the red, white, and blue chips, jack of diamonds/queen of spades pairs (a winning hand), and cutthroat tactics that triggered my fierce competitiveness, which once caught the eye of a Cincinnati Reds scout and manifests itself today in sports trash-talking with my brothers. We played cards for bragging rights, not money. When I cashed in those patriotic Pinochle chips, it was for pride—Dad’s compliments on my adolescent card shark skills. At the witching hour, kids were kicked off the card table, even mid-meal, so that the adults could play Spades. I never learned that one, but observing the grown-ups at play definitely honed my trash-talking skills. —Keith Flamer

Until I rented a house with a bocce court, I always thought of the game mainly as an excuse for older Italian gentlemen to drink Limoncello—never anticipating it would become part of a Sunday afternoon ritual for me and my 30-something friends summering in the Hamptons. We started playing it as a drinking game—basically just tossing the small, white pallino onto the court, and then throwing the other balls at it to see who could hit it. (Those who missed had to do a shot!) But after a while, a funny thing happened: We started getting competitive, learning the actual rules, and buying a tape measure to settle disputes about who was closest to the white ball. Friends from other houses started coming over to play, and it soon became a regular weekend ritual. A year later, we rented a different house, and though it had a beautiful pool, we missed the bocce court—and the friendships and camaraderie it fostered. —James K. Willcox

Every spring, my partner, Paul, dreams up ways to make our twice-yearly camping trips more fun, comfortable, and delicious. (Acrylic markers for painting rocks! Hot water bottles to keep our feet warm! A reflector oven for campfire baking!) Last year, he wanted to find a lawn game that we could play with minimal equipment—or athleticism. The internet offered up kubb, sometimes called Viking chess. The “kubbs” are narrow wooden blocks stood on end: five of them on either side of the pitch, plus one “king” block in the center. Two teams compete to knock over each other’s kubbs, and eventually the king, by tossing smaller wooden batons. Once the first kubbs are knocked down, they’re then replaced strategically back on the pitch, and the game is more scheme than skill, though a good aim helps, too. Paul split extra firewood into the right sizes to make our set. Our main problem? We remembered only about 75 percent of the rules, which made for some delightfully chaotic and challenging fun. Once we got the internet back, we realized we’d essentially been playing on easy mode. I can’t wait to play again this year; I’ll be upgrading our kit with a real set (with an instruction sheet to boot). —Catherine Roberts