Dodgeball

When I was in first grade I was a major tomboy. Not really a surprise considering I grew up with two older brothers that I was either in competition with, being chased by, or being taught sneaky tricks to win a game. In gym class we would occasionally have a substitute teacher. Most of us kids were typically nice and well-behaved but when there was a sub we instinctively knew that it was time to get a little rowdy and push the good behavior limits. Kids are like sharks in this way. They can smell inexperience or lack of leadership like blood in the water and ly in wait for the anarchy to begin.

So on one particular weekday we had a sub for gym class.  For some strange reason the go to activity was to play a game called dodgeball. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s laziness or apathy or lack of truly structured gym time. But why on Earth anyone in the administration would approve giving a bunch of hyperactive kids balls to throw at each other is beyond me. It should come as no surprise that I loved dodgeball days. It played directly into my overactive and aggressive nature and my lust for competition.

The objective of this game is exactly as it sounds: dodge a ball. The person with the ball tries to throw it at someone else and if it hits them then they are out. If the person catches the ball then the thrower is out. People would get hit in the legs, stomach, back, face, arms. Often times a ball would be hurtled at you from behind and you’d have no clue it was coming until the shock of sudden impact. Kids would fall to the ground clutching their stomachs sometimes having the wind knocked out. The game is sick in an adrenaline-filled slightly psychotic way. Nail or be nailed.

There is an athletic component in so much as you have to run and move quickly to avoid getting struck by one of the missile-like red balls flying at you from every direction. The longer you last the more your endurance and cunning is challenged. The game is played until there is only one insane little mongrel of a human left. A ruthless, strategic, and aggressive 6 or 7-year-old who systematically knocked out every other person in class and never got hit. That kid would have bragging rights for the rest of the day.

So, the sub got our entire first-grade class organized, explained the rules, and we started playing. Things start off total chaos. Thirty kids running around in every direction screaming and leaping out the way. Red balls flying everywhere (see footnote). Whiz. Whiz. Someone would get hit in the face, and they were quickly ushered to the sidelines of the large gymnasium to watch the carnage continue as tears streamed down their cheeks. The usual suspects fell prey to the bigger or more diabolical of the group. It was survival of the fittest. The law of the jungle. Kill or be killed. Kids really started to get into it. They licked their chops like bloodhounds, with pupils dilated, on the ready to dodge and attack. They were thirsty for direct hits on their friends and classmates.

The game was going alright so far. I was jumping, dipping, dropping, cutting to dodge all the balls. I’d leap up and pull my hips in at the last second making a giant c shape with my body. Pre-matrix moves. But then the teacher pointed to me and called me out. But I didn’t get hit. I tried to argue but she just told me I was out and to go sit on the sidelines. Now, I was a child who didn’t like to lose. But more importantly I detested injustice. And this was a  great injustice in my mind. So I walked to the sidelines with rage steadily boiling inside of me muttering to myself about how unfair this was.

I sat down on my knees. I silently seethed. I looked at the sub with disgust. How could she do this to me? I didn’t get hit. This was so unfair. I’d prove her wrong. I should have been the last man standing. This was an outrage!

And then like a talisman forged in the depths of hell one of the red balls came rolling past me. No one even noticed it was there except for me. And there was one moment where I almost just let it go. Let it bounce against the gym wall and roll back into play. And that moment passed quickly and was replaced by the knowledge that I had an opportunity here and an immediate plan formulated in my childlike mind. I crawled quickly and stealthily over to it and picked it up. And then everything became clear in my mind. I knew what I must do to seek justice. To get sweet revenge. The world became a grid. I saw latitude and longitude, horizontal and vertical axises. I knew the exact distance and location of every kid down to a hair. And then my vision became narrowed and focused on the teacher.

I took two steps with the ball to square my hips and cocked my right arm back with the left hand steadying the ball. My body moved instinctively as if possessed by my deep sense of injustice. My movements almost predestined at some other time. I set my sites. I drew my arm back and whipped the ball forward in one perfect move like it was choreographed for Broadway. I had perfect aim. The ball had perfect speed. I could see each revolution in slow motion as the ball rocketed through the air. I heard “Chariots of Fire” in my head. Da da da da daaaa daaaaa. Ch ch ch ch ch. Time stood still for those few seconds as I watched. Then, THWAP! It nailed the teacher right in the back of the head, her short brown hair bouncing to the side as the ball connected. A perfect, one in a million hit. The dodgeball throw to end all throws.

In that moment I felt glorious. I was redeemed and alive. I wanted to celebrate. To do a little end-zone dance.

But then I realized what I had just done. I hit the teacher in the head! I was a criminal! I would be kicked out of school! I would never play dodgeball again! I looked for a way out but knew that I couldn’t run as it would signal my guilt to the teacher. So instead I sat back down as quickly as I could , pretending I had been there the entire time. Nothing to see here. I was just watching innocently. I tried to avert my gaze and avoid eye contact. I started sweating from head to toe and on my upper lip. I couldn’t steady my breathing. I tried to stay calm but if you had lined me up with other criminals the beet-red color of my cheeks would have given me away. My heart was racing a thousand miles a minute. My little body coursed with adrenaline, fear, elation, and temporary insanity.

The sub immediately spun around, blew her whistle as loudly as she could, and yelled that the game was over. We had to sit silently for the rest of class. No more fun games. The game had gone too far, and we all knew it. And the crazy thing was no one ever knew it was me. No one knew that I was the kid who ruined dodgeball day for everyone else. No one ever knew I had nailed the teacher in the back of the head with one pristine rage-fueled throw. No one witnessed my moment of glory. But I knew. And I’ll always feel a little bit proud that my aim was so good, and a little bit embarrassed for behaving so badly.

Do you have a favorite childhood dodgeball story equivalent of which you’re a little bit proud and ashamed? I’d love to hear it in the comments.

Footnote: I have never seen these balls anywhere else in any context. I believe they are manufactured and designed solely for the purpose of attacking your classmates and wreaking havoc during gym class. Produce one and Lord of the Flies-like chaos will ensue.