The Clumsy Interloper

Last Saturday Carlos Hernandez of Wake Forest returned a punt 88 yards for a touchdown against the Virginia Cavaliers with 1:53 left in the first half. Previously UVA held a tenuous 6-0 lead, but now the scoreboard read 6-6 as Wake’s kicker Connor Calvert lined up for the PAT. As the kick sailed through the uprights, the camera panned the crowd at Scott Stadium to capture images of Demon Deacon fans high fiving while dejected Cavalier fans stood in disbelief at the abrupt turn in the game. Then the camera found a lone boy, not more than 12, gleefully pantomiming the “no completion/juggled ball” signal by vigorously moving both open-palmed hands alternatively up and down. He seemed boundless, unable to control his excitement. Even on TV you could tell he was vibrating with joy. The camera cut to the scoreboard which showed the home team first. UVA 6, WAKE 7.

The announcers cut in, “I have an 8-year-old at home… I know what that means,” heavy sigh, “Six Seven.”

I turned to Eva, who had previously spoken of boys in her class saying these numbers repetitively in succession, and asked, “What is this?”

She offered up a byzantine stream of incongruity – a hip hop song, “a high school basketball player” and an internet video of a boy. When she concluded, I was more confused than when she began.

Wake promptly strip sacked the backup UVA quarterback, recovered the fumble and kicked a field goal to end the half. The score now read UVA 6, WAKE 10 much to the chagrin of the kids in attendance.

During halftime Eva and I watched several YouTube videos claiming to explain the “Six Seven” phenomenon. To Eva’s credit, she hit most of the salient highlights. There really wasn’t an “explanation” but rather a timeline of online events. Over the last 12 months the “6-7” phrase and coupled hand gesture has churned through strata of memeification and now metastasized through middle school America.   

In December 2024, “6-7” was first referenced in a rap song “Doot Doot” by Skrilla about a street in Philadelphia. It was then picked up on TikTok and overlayed onto basketball highlights showcasing 6’ 7” Lamelo Ball. Then a high school basketball player, Taylen “TK” Kinney, furthered this trend by making videos where he would parrot the phrase repeatedly. For instance, he would rate his Starbuck order, with his palms out, and vacillate between six or seven out of ten for his morning coffee. Together these events formed a scaffolding for the meme to reach terminal velocity. In March 2025, a floppy haired white kid Maverick Trevillian went viral after being spotted in a high school basketball crowd emoting the now infamous “6-7” accompanied by the now ubiquitous faux juggling. The cultural appropriation was complete – from the depths of hip-hop and NBA TikTok to white kids everywhere.  

The meaning is neither good nor bad, but rather an intentionally absurdist. It represents a dada-esque Gen Alpha shorthand. It is wielded without purpose as subterfuge, causing adults to feel confused and, well, old.

Previously shared internet phenomena like the Ice Bucket Challenge, Harlem Shake, The Dress, Pokemon Go or Moo Deng were inter-generational touchstones of the moment. They held an immediately agreed upon social currency and water cooler intrigue.

More recent slang like Skibidi Toilet, which stemmed from an internet video series, proved confounding to adults but ultimately didn’t break through like 6-7. This one feels different – like the meme canary in the online coal mine.

While adults are using legacy social media platforms in very intended ways – Post, Comment, Like, Subscribe – the younger generation are experimenting with the source code – as in, are dank meme’s really a portal to a higher level of existence? If we all eschew social norms together, then does society still exist? Can online be more real than reality, or, is it already?

*

Eva fell asleep in the 3^rd quarter which was for the best. The Cavaliers lost their second game of the season with said backup QB at the helm.

The next morning, we went to Bodo’s before for a trip to the Grandparent’s house. There was a wide cross section of Charlottesville in line that morning awaiting their bagels – white haired couples, hungover college students in PJ’s and cowboy boots, families with small children – a multigenerational melting pot. Eva and Sybbie spied a school friend across the restaurant and went to chat them up.

I placed my order and saw “72” on the receipt, that’s when my blood ran cold. The dutiful employee at the counter bellowed SIXTY-FIVE as the mood suddenly grew oddly somber. I started to scan the restaurant for 10-year-olds who were paying attention to the mounting number calls. SIXTY-SIX. I caught the eyes of another man, mid-thirties with a beard, and we knowingly smiled at each other. We both knew what could possibly happen next. There was a palpable unrest behind the counter, like a déjà vu event so staid that it lost all wonder. Time slowed down as we awaited what was previously a mundane moment on a Sunday morning. The man in a tidy man-bun and white apron called from behind the counter SIXTY-SEVEN!

:::tumbleweed:::

:::Gen X and Millennial sighs of relief:::