I miss how spontaneous and imaginative childhood and adolescent play could be.

Take, for example, “jungle warfare,” a game that combines hide and seek with tag, only instead of using your hand to tag your opponent(s), you throw a Nerf or other cushy ball at them. Assuming it hits them, you shout, “You’re it!” and dash off into a wooded or jungle-like area, all in a span of seconds.

Jungle warfare was invented by a pair of teens 40 years ago. I know because I played the first-ever round of it.

I can’t recall why we named it that, other than we lived in Miami and my subtropical yard in which we played was bursting with exotic plants. The proliferation of Vietnam War movies in the mid-’80s probably played a role, too.

Technically, the game was dreamed up on the spot by Dan Pawlak, probably the best friend I ever had. I get half-credit for its invention because I’m the person he threw the ball at.

It happened during a break in the construction of one of the several skateboard ramps we built and rebuilt between 1984 and ‘86: I don’t know why we had a Nerf football around. After he threw it AT me instead of TO me with a youth-changing “You’re it!” he darted into the tropical foliage.

Instinctively, I picked up the ball and gave chase through my home’s large side yard — “the lot,” we all called it. When my dad bought our family home in the mid-’60s, it was the first house built on our street. Before it filled in with other houses, he also purchased a half-acre lot next door.

And then my amateur arborist of a father really put down roots, festooning three-fourths of the lot with tropical plants — towering royal palms, Norfolk Island pines, a sizable bamboo cluster, a sprawling ficus tree. The Australian pine was the tallest tree on our street. Friends and I climbed nearly to the top when we were 9 or 10. There was a pencil tree my dad always told me to stay out of because of its toxic white sap. I climbed under advisement.

The last quarter of the yard was a large grassy clearing in the street-facing corner closest to our house, perfect for the larger and larger ramps we built once I became consumed with skating.

The first round Danny and I played was just the two of us, but we soon enlisted others to play in the days and years that followed. Rules evolved. The person who was it would count to 20 to give other players time to hide around the yard. Play was restricted to the lot. When you were hit with the ball, you became it. And we didn’t pause the game to count again. You could get tagged back if the ball was retrieved quickly. I’m certain there were some arguments, but all I remember is how much fun it was. Many a time fleeing players would pass one another as they ran on a path and ask “Who’s it?”

Given the abundance of climbable trees, we had a rule for tagging someone up in one. Whoever was it could throw the ball at the person — but they had to also be in the tree, an awkward throw at best. Sometimes you’d pursue a person convinced they were trapped, but your throw would miss and you’d have to climb down and retrieve the ball, giving them time to escape.

Invasive Brazilian pepper found its way into our yard. It was a hassle keeping it at bay, but its branches were limber. You could go out on a perch and keep going till it bent so low to the ground you could escape your pursuer. That was the best tree, other than the ficus, in which to hide.

People had their advantages. Dan’s aim with a Nerf ball was deadly. Johnny Jones could climb a tree like Tarzan. I was nimble and knew the paths and hiding places better than anyone.

The game consumed our time and filled us with glee. Running, climbing, throwing and ducking branches honed our athleticism, but we couldn’t have cared less.

By 1986, the lot was home to the last and largest of the vert ramps — 28-feet wide, 11.5-feet tall, two staircases to the 8-foot deep platforms on either side. Those of us who played jungle warfare were as likely to come sprinting across the ramp with a Nerf ball whizzing past our heads as we were to skate that day, much to the chagrin of the more focused jock skateboarders who came around.

Time stood still when we played the game. One time I was hidden so well I stayed stock while a highly competitive friend, JB, searched around me, hidden in a strange spot of overgrowth and above-ground roots I’d shimmied into, burying myself in leaves.

As the sun set, everyone else went home and JB eventually forfeited. Victory was delicious.

In 1988, when I was 20, after a neighbor complained to the City of Miami, we had to tear the ramp down. I was ready to transfer from a community college to the University of Georgia anyway. Four years later, Hurricane Andrew ravaged that beautiful yard and knocked down the Australian pine. In 1996, my parents sold the lot where I’d spent my well-wasted youth. It broke my dad’s heart to sell it, but the taxes on the lot were exorbitant. He told me he’d always thought I’d build a home on the lot and live next door.

With my friends’ help, I built something better, a giant ramp and a unique adolescence. My friends were at my house every day and had cars if we wanted to go anywhere. I have a feeling we’d still play if time, adulthood and geography had not gotten in the way of our good times.

Had I a time machine and a choice between vert skating at the ability level I had then or playing jungle warfare with the friend I had then, I might go with jungle warfare. I miss walking through my yard and seeing friends up in the trees.

There was a slight jungle warfare renaissance in Bend after my kids were born. We’d open up the doors to the house and the gate to the backyard and we’d play indoors and out.

A lot of exercise is just plain boring, but jungle warfare is one of those games where exercise is baked into the fun. It’s still the best time I ever had running, climbing or throwing a ball.

So get a Nerf ball and summon your friends. Jungle warfare never disappoints.

Just do me a favor and invite me to play.