The Subject: Lil’ Alfy Timberton, 72, the “Grand Statesman of the Grid.” The Scene: Alfy is wearing vintage canvas sneakers and a faded “National Divisional” tracksuit from 1974. He is meticulously chalking a grid that looks like it was measured with a laser.
Interviewer: Alfy, thanks for sitting down. Or standing, I should say. You’re looking remarkably fit for a man who’s spent seven decades on one leg.
Lil’ Alfy: [Chuckles, a deep, resonant sound that hints at his vocal power] It’s the yodeling, son. Keeps the lungs elastic. People spend thousands on gym memberships; I just spend fifty cents on a stick of jumbo chalk.
Interviewer: You’ve been at this since the 50s. Back then, it was the “Schuhplattler Hop” craze. What was the atmosphere like?
Lil’ Alfy: It was electric, and it was secret. We weren’t allowed to play in the main thoroughfares because the shopkeepers thought the noise was a public nuisance. We’d go to the back alleys of Washington Park. You’d hear the trills echoing off the brick walls. If a cop came by, we’d just pretend we were doing regular hopscotch and humming. But we knew. We were athletes.
Interviewer: You held the World Title for years before the “Lost Decades” hit. How did you feel when the sport started to be treated like a punchline in the 80s and 90s?
Lil’ Alfy: [His expression sours slightly] It was tough. You’d tell someone you were a competitive yodel-hopper and they’d ask where the hidden camera was. They didn’t see the torn meniscus or the vocal nodes. They just saw a grown man jumping on a sidewalk singing like a mountain goat. But I didn’t stop. My father didn’t stop. You don’t abandon the “Golden Thread” just because it isn’t trendy.
Interviewer: What do you think about the new generation? They’re using metronomes, heart-rate monitors, and “scientific” training schedules.
Lil’ Alfy: [He picks up his marker—a perfectly flat river stone worn smooth by years of use] They’ve got the tech, sure. Some of these kids can hit a High C while doing a double-reverse hop into Square 7. It’s impressive. But some of them forget the soul of it. A yodel isn’t just a pitch; it’s a cry across the mountain. If you’re so focused on your heart rate that you forget to feel the rhythm of the stone, you’re just a jumping calculator.
Interviewer: Any advice for the beginners? The ones who are still embarrassed when the neighbors look out the window?
Lil’ Alfy: Let ’em look. In five minutes, they’ll be trying to figure out how you’re staying upright. My advice? Watch your core. When you lean down to pick up that puck in Square 4, your lungs want to collapse. You have to push the yodel out from your belt. And for heaven’s sake, don’t use those bouncy rubber balls for markers. Get a stone. A stone has dignity.
Interviewer: One last thing, Alfy. Can we hear the “Apex Trill” one more time?
Lil’ Alfy: [He doesn’t hesitate. He takes a breath that seems to expand his entire torso, hops with surprising grace onto Square 10, and lets out a trill so clear and piercing that a bird in a nearby tree stops singing to listen.]
Competitive Hopscotch Yodelers Hub 
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