The pointless game started years and years ago when our oldest boys, now out on their own, were little. We'd be driving along at night when, all of a sudden, a car would come the other way, one headlight burned out, and a boy would shout, at the top of his lungs, "PADIDDLE!" and punch his sibling in the shoulder as hard as he could.

The resulting screaming, crying and kicking would almost run me off the road. Most of the time, of course, this involved our older son wailing on our younger son, who sat nervously in the corner, wondering when the next half-lit car would come our way.

Each time this would happen, I'd pull the car over, turn around and explain patiently, at the top of my lungs, that we don't do "padiddles" in this family. Our older son would nod patiently, while frowning dismissively, and agree that he'd never do it again. Until the next time. (Our younger son never paid attention, as he was too busy rubbing his sore shoulder.)

As the years passed, we've tried to stamp it out, but this stupid game has come back every once in a while, like a persistent rash. Actually, I hesitate to call it a game. A game is something fun, something where two people compete and one wins. Padiddle, which just involves two or more people who always end up losers, is better classified as assault and battery on an installment basis.

As our two older boys grew out of it, Padiddle finally went out of fashion and became almost forgotten. I thought we were in the clear. But then our younger kids, once they got tall enough to see out the car windows, suddenly started shouting, "BANANA!" every time we passed a yellow car and, of course, punching a sibling as hard as they could.

Every time it happened, I would stop the car, sort out the mess and warn the offender that it was a long walk home. The only kid who wanted to stop it, though, was the kid who just threw the punch. The other ones are desperate to even the score, and will even throw a punch at the sight of an orange car.

No matter how many times I talked to them, somebody would always end up shouting out the word, I'd hear a punch, and before we knew it, there'd be a small fry riot breaking out in the back seat. I got to where I'd see a yellow car coming and shout out, "NO BANANAS! YOU HEAR ME? NO … BANANAS!"

Finally, sick of the chaos, and after a particularly aggravating fight, I pulled over the car and laid down the law. We'd still play "Banana!" in our car, but under the new rules: Dad would hand out the punches. At first, the kids thought this was kind of interesting and cool, until I explained the rest. Dad would deal out punches, under these new rules, to whomever said, "Banana!" The kids looked at me as if I was crazy.

"That's just stupid!" one said.

"No stupider than your rules were," I responded, holding up a tightly closed, adult-sized fist, and smiling menacingly.

Just to make sure they didn't slip up, the next morning, I got into the car and tossed a piece of fruit on the dashboard.

"What's that for?" my daughter asked.

"What?" I said innocently.

"That!" she said.

"What?"

"That ban . . . " She stopped short when she saw me start to roll up my sleeve.

"Whoa. Good one," she said, nodding.

All was well for a few months, until we were on our way to soccer practice, and a PT Cruiser came toward us. I didn't pay any attention until, from the back seat, I heard a voice ring out, "CRUISER BRUISER!" and heard the familiar thump, followed by groaning.

I found myself scanning the horizon, hoping, just hoping for a yellow car. Just one.

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