Pete's Expert Summary
My human seems to have procured a "Slammo," a device that appears to be a miniature, ground-level trampoline for the express purpose of encouraging loud, clumsy human activity. The brand name, "GoSports," is an immediate red flag, suggesting an obscene level of energy. The entire premise involves swatting small spheres at this net, a spectacle guaranteed to disrupt my napping schedule with its chaotic thwacking and undignified shouting. While the "high tension netting" might offer a novel, albeit bouncy, surface for a brief moment of contemplation, and the larger of the three included balls seems to have a certain heft that could be pleasing to bat, the whole affair reeks of a temporary distraction. Its only truly valuable feature is the carrying case, which thankfully implies this entire noisy contraption might eventually be taken elsewhere.
Key Features
- WHAT IS SLAMMO: Slammo is an action-packed 2-on-2 volleyball style game where teams have 3 hits to return or spike the ball to the circular net; Fun for the whole family at the beach, BBQs, camping, and in the backyard
- COMPLETE SET: Includes 1 Slammo roundnet target, 1 large 12 cm training ball to learn the game, 2 smaller 9 cm competition balls, travel carrying case and game rules
- EASY TO LEARN FOR KIDS & ADULTS: Slammo is the must-have outdoor lawn and beach game for the summer that will engage players of all ages; Retail packaged, makes a great gift
- WHY CHOOSE SLAMMO: Premium construction at a great value without the inflated price tag; Features high tension netting for optimized bounce, track hook technology for 100% net coverage, and all-surface legs to play anywhere; Designed in the US
- EASY ASSEMBLY: Imagine the action-packed play style of volleyball but without the hassle of setting up; Quickly jump straight into the game where everyone will be spiking like a pro in no time
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The box arrived with the usual fanfare reserved for things that are, inevitably, not for me. It smelled of industrial plastic and long-distance travel, an odor that offended my delicate sensibilities. My human, whom I shall refer to as The Provider, tore it open with a cry of "Look, Pete! It's a Slammo!" as if this nonsensical word should mean anything to me. From my vantage point atop the mahogany bookcase, I watched with narrowed eyes as he and a guest fumbled with black tubes and a sad, folded disc of mesh. They spoke in hushed, serious tones about "track hook technology," a phrase so absurdly technical for such a simple-looking object that I had to suppress a yawn. Once their crude construction was complete and left unattended in the center of the lawn, I descended for a closer inspection. My gray paws, silent as falling ash, carried me across the grass to the strange, circular altar. The "high tension netting" hummed with a low potential energy. I extended a single, perfect claw and gave it a tentative pluck. It responded with a dull *thrumm*. Emboldened, I placed a paw upon it, then another, testing its integrity. It held my considerable, yet elegant, weight. A small, experimental pounce produced a satisfying *boing*. It was no sunbeam, but it had a certain novel springiness. A potential, if temporary, throne. My reign was cut short by the thunderous return of The Provider and his companion. They began their "game," a spastic, graceless display of flailing limbs and shouted exclamations. They lunged and yelped, swatting one of the small, hard "competition" balls back and forth. One errant spike sent the projectile whistling past my ear, striking the cedar fence with an alarming *crack*. The sheer audacity. This was not play; this was a clear and present danger to my well-being. I flattened my ears, gave them a glare of pure contempt, and stalked back to the house. Let them have their perilous fun. Much later, as twilight softened the edges of the world, I ventured out again. The humans had abandoned their toy, their energy finally spent. There, nestled in the dampening grass, was the forgotten "training ball." It was larger than the others, a plump sphere with a pleasing matte texture. I approached it not as a toy, but as prey. My tuxedo-front brushed against the clover as I stalked it. A single, swift bat sent it rolling in a silent, perfect arc. It did not skitter or bounce erratically; it rolled with a certain dignity. I pounced, sinking my claws into its yielding surface. The verdict was clear. The net is a monument to human absurdity. The small balls are dangerous projectiles. But this larger training ball... this I can work with. It understands the art of the chase. It will be confiscated as payment for the disruption to my afternoon. The Slammo itself is a failure, but from its wreckage, I have salvaged this one worthy tribute.
