The Day of Dodge Ball

Memory is an amazing thing. We'll remember the oddest, most useless details on the planet completely unintentionally, yet lose events or stories that were so potent they may have helped shape our entire lives moments after they occur. Sometimes though, if we're lucky, the faintest smell or the subtlest of feelings will trigger these lost stories to resurface, even if just in the flash of a second.
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The bell rang for class to get out one morning at I. F. Elementary School, and I hesitantly sat down my paintbrush. The bell, which was a real, old-fashioned metal schoolyard bell, rather than the digital replacement that bellows over most intercoms of today's schools, meant it was time to leave the comfort of my third-grade classroom and go to our next class. Most subjects at that grade level were taught all in one classroom, but one class a day sent us elsewhere. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we left for Mrs. P's music class. The other three days of the week, though, we would go to Mr. R's Physical Education class. Sadly for me, today was one of those days. I continued to reluctantly take off my paint-smeared apron and walk to the door where we would be escorted to what I was sure would be another day of physical pain and exhaustion, especially for an undiagnosed asthmatic, as I was at the time.
I was the class nobody. You know, the kind of kid that the teacher probably wouldn't even notice missing had I not shown up one day (though I always did). Still short and a little dumpy, like most kids, nothing was too outstanding about me other than my ability to turn invisible to all those around me. Hardly another kid knew my name, but I personally liked to think of it as a defense mechanism, even if I didn't yet know those words. I was so effective at it that the teacher had turned out the lights of the room before I had even gotten in line, since most kids were already out the door. With a heavy sigh, I hurried to my usual place, brining up the end of the line, as we quietly marched down the hall, per our orders.
On our way to P.E. class, we passed by the large, glass doors that led to the playground. Kids were out there playing, likely fourth graders based on their size, and enjoying the nice weather. It was sunny, with just a few clouds, but not too warm – exactly the way I like it. Such a shame the next hour would be wasted in the gymnasium. Doing what, I wondered? Swinging a bat wildly in the air, trying to play baseball? Doing more nausea-inducing summersaults that I hadn't gotten right in three years? With any luck, we'd just be playing with that big parachute everyone loves. You know the one I'm talking about; don't pretend like you don't. Of course, that was highly unlikely. The truth, upon arriving in the gym, turned out to be the most dreaded two words in the elementary school vernacular.
Dodge Ball.
Sure, we joke about dodge ball now. We've even made a mildly successful comedy based entirely around the game. As a young child, though, dodge ball may be one of the most horrifying experiences of your early life. Think for a moment about the concept; children, hopped up on sugar and so clumsy they still trip over their own feet and untied shoelaces, are given heavy leather balls, dozens of them, capable of breaking windows and knocking out teeth. These balls are all dumped in the middle of the court where the children are divided into two teams, making the necessary ideological "us" and "them" that even kids have instinctually programmed in their brains, and are explicitly told to hurl these weapons of mass destruction directly at fellow classmates – usually aiming for their head. Each team even starts at opposing ends of the court, with all the balls in the center, making for a screaming dash of absolute madness and fear the moment the coach blew his whistle for the game to begin.
I watched in horror as the balls were dumped into the center of the court, and Mr. R began calling out names and pointing to one end of the court or the other. We didn't get the luxury of picking our own teams. No, no, that would open up the possibility of victimization or being exclusionary, because apparently the entire game wasn't based around that already. Thankfully, though, I was placed on the "back" team at the south end of the court with Alec, the class "jock." Elementary school may be a little early to use that word, but we all knew an Alec as little kids. He was the one that could run the mile race in record-breaking time, always won at tag, never missed a swing at bat, and won the Presidential Fitness Award all five years of his elementary schooling. Best of all, he was one of only two people in the class that seemed to know who I was. Dare I say it, but he was even a friend. At least, comparatively, to how other people regarded me.
Later in the year, Alec even ran for the title-only position of class president, with my then good-friend Wyatt running as his "vice" class president, if you can imagine the pointlessness of such a position. While again, my vocabulary simply wasn't advanced enough to know such things, I was heavily involved in their campaigning efforts around the playground and classroom. While most third graders covet the title of class president or similar superficial rankings, I kept happily busy with the position of class campaign manager. Yes, I was a very different child.
Unfortunately for Wyatt, he ended up on the "front" team, opposite of mine. Immediately I knew who was going down first in the game, because poor Wyatt was the "strange" child. He was the booger kid, the one that ate worms, and, worst of all, was the one with severe anger management issues. Kids would always push his buttons simply because they were so easy to push. Naturally, that made him the wounded antelope in the wilderness that was the dodge ball court. Even though Alec and I were his friends, generally speaking, the moment the game begins, all past relationships are severed. All that matters are the teams; all that exists are the teams, in accordance with holy elementary school playground doctrine.
Pandemonium. Bedlam. Panic. Screaming of nearly three dozen children engorged in the fury of defeating "the other" as they rush blindly towards their doom, towards the line of dodge balls in the center of the court. It was only then I heard the whistle blow that began the game. The unfathomable madness unleashed by its shriek was so mindless and anomalous the very laws of space-time seemed altered, based on this sequence of events. The kids ran to the center, grabbed the balls, took just a few steps back and hurled them at their targets. There were just so many at the start of the game aim wasn't important. No matter where you threw a ball, it would hit somebody, and they would be "out."
Dodge ball was a little different at our school than most places. At least Mr. R was smart enough to not use the dense, leather balls of most courts. We had foam ones, but even they could deal some damage if thrown at close range. As was standard for doge ball, though, was the court-side rule. You couldn't leave your side of the court, so if you ran out of balls on your end, well, you were pretty screwed until the other end decided to hurl them at you. Finally, there were two ways to get someone "out." The first, obviously, was to hit them with a ball you throw. The second way was to catch a ball, without trapping it against your body. If you did that, the person that threw the ball was automatically out, even if they weren't aiming for you. This lead to a lot more outs than most games, especially near the beginning. The team to run out of players first lost.
Mr. R blew his whistle, "Wyatt! You're out!"
Wyatt, as predicted, was the first to go, having been pelted with four different balls. Mr. R blew his whistle again, shouted another name, and called an out. Again, and again, and again this happened, leading to at least half a dozen outs before everyone had even thrown their first ball. The coach only had a few seconds to breathe before more people began dropping in the bloodbath.
Former classmates and friends turned into bitter enemies for that class period. North and South Korea, OU and OSU, red and blue; they all held nothing on the battle of the front team vs. the back team. It was war. It was a battle for survival. It was a William Golden-esque jungle, except without the first eleven chapters of pleasantries. And just as in the jungle, my animalistic instincts went into full gear. I became a squirrel among a pack of hungry dogs as I reminded myself of the same simple rules any successful dodge ball squirrel needed to remember in order to survive the battle.
Rule number one: you're going to get hurt. Possibly badly. Likely badly. And you'll get hurt a lot. Accept it. Try not to think about it too much, but accept it.
Rule number two, and perhaps the most important: don't stop moving. I didn't know it at the time, but this instinct of mine was far more animalistic than I thought. Most kids took the role of a starved tiger on crystal meth and caffeine as they charged around the court, shouting and throwing as much as their small bodies could muster. I, on the other hand, took the role of the Serengeti gazelle, hopping, dodging, weaving, zig-zagging my way across the court, never touching a ball. My knack for invisibility even turned out to be effective on the court, as other kids actually wouldn't bother aiming for me until I was one of the last ones standing. For one, hitting a moving target was much harder than hitting the one charging directly at you, armed with a dodge ball. More importantly though, because of my innate "skills," no one considered me a threat, and really only took me down if I got between their ball and its target.
My third and final rule, however, reduced the odds of that happening significantly. Rule number three: use my fellow teammates as human shields. Call it what you want; cruel, unthoughtful, cowardly, but I called it effective. It's a jungle out there, and I did what was necessary to survive. Now, you never actually grab someone and hold them in front of you; that would be too obvious. It would lead to that teammate turning around, pegging you point-blank with a dodge ball to the gut or face, and worse yet, get you in trouble with the teacher. In order for it to work, you've got to be more subtle. Make it seem like an accident, if you have to make it noticeable at all. Me, I just happened to dodge and weave so much, people weren't shocked when I managed to jump behind them. Besides, I was so invisible, in the rare chance someone did target me, or a stray ball flew in my direction, I could just jump behind someone and they wouldn't even realize I was standing there.
The game went on for nearly the entire class period. It turned out to be one of those epic dodge ball games that dragged on forever. Normally we fit two games into one class session. Not today – not by a long shot. This was likely because, while my team had the best athlete in the class, the other team had all three runner-ups behind him. All three of them were girls too – black girls – so you know they stuck together to defeat anyone, particularly us boys, on the other team. Most of their names have faded from my memory, but I remember one specifically, and will likely never forget.
Shrieka. Her name was Shrieka. I'll never forget her, because she was one of the worst bullies I ever had in my elementary school years. She hated me. I'm not even sure if she knew my name, but she hated me. Why I don't know. She just hated me. She hated everything about me. It may have had something to do with the fact that I smashed into her the year prior during a game of tag and gave her a giant goose-egg just above her eye for nearly two weeks, or maybe it was her friend Priscilla that I grossed out two years prior when I spit into a sink in front of her. Regardless, she and her gang all managed to get on the other team opposite me and Alec. Like I said earlier though, all past relationships die in the dodge ball arena, including the bad ones. I wasn't worth their effort; the three of them were far too busy trying to bring down the unstoppable juggernaut that was Alec.
The game went on, and people, one by one, were called out. It eventually dwindled to three versus two. On the front team were Shrieka and her entourage of two other teammates, who had only a few balls left on their side of the court. In the remains of the back team, though, they faced Alec, the almighty goliath of the dodge ball court. I watched in amazement as the three girls on the other side scattered like roaches in sudden lamplight, faster and more panicked than even me. Without many balls on their side of the court, they communicated to one another, without speaking, to evade all of Alec's assaults until he ran out of ammunition. Alec was too enraged to even notice this strategy, trying to swat the girls off the course like gnats. He threw with such great strength of muscle I could hear the canon fire of each throw. The anger on his face was fiercer than that of any Spartan or soldier I had or ever would see in my life as one by one, Alec reached for a ball, fired it across the court, and before he even missed his target already had the next shot in his hand, ready to go. It was a glorious sight of human perseverance the likes of which I've never seen anywhere in my adult life. Little did we know though, that with each triumphant heave of a ball, Alec was forging further and further into Shrieka's trap.
Eventually, the inevitable happened. Alec reached down for another dodge ball, but there were none. Shrieka and her other two teammates froze in place. She grinned wickedly as Alec came to the grim realization; his side was out of balls. Every single ball on the court was now on their side. Alec, with no recourse, looked up to his enemies in a blank stare; admitting defeat, commending his enemies for a strategy well played, and facing doom all at once. Time slowed down in that moment, as Shrieka and her comrades in arms began collecting the dodge balls.
It was like that old Asian story about the man running from an angry tiger, only to fall off the edge of a cliff. Half-way down, he manages to grab onto a branch, instead of falling to his death. From the branch, he looks up to see the hungry tiger staring down at him, just waiting for him to climb back up. Then, he looks down, only to see another hungry tiger waiting for him below in the valley. Up or down, climb or fall, in that moment the man knows one thing for sure; he's going to die.
Time resumed as Alec let loose the mightiest roar a nine-year-old boy could muster, and charged towards the center of the court. Surely, that would only make it easier for him to be hit, but when facing all three of the next-best athletes, fully armed, being struck was an inevitable outcome. Shrieka and her girls unloaded on Alec as he charged forward at them with his hands up in the air like a madman. It was then I witnessed one of the greatest events of my young life. Rushing at the girls, Alec leapt into the air, hands opened as wide as they could, specifically positioned to meet two of the three balls the girls managed to throw in their first volley mid-air.
"He couldn't be." I thought to myself, "No, he couldn't actually be trying to…"
With his feet up off the ground, Alec caught two of the balls mid-air, rendering the two girls that threw them out. Catching two dodge balls, simultaneously, with nothing more than open hands, taking out two people at the same time – it was unheard of. So breath-taking and majestic he was, a hero of the back team, leaping forth to meet his fate from the inescapable third ball that struck him straight in the heart, he defiantly spat in the eye of his enemies and still brought two of their team's members down with his dying breath. He fell to his knees on the hardwood of the court, as Mr. R blew his whistle three times, indicating all three outs; Alec, and Shrieka's two toadies he slew.
The moment was so fantastical and consuming I couldn't even help but bask in its glory for a few seconds as my comrade returned to the "out" bench with the rest of the back team.
Shrieka jumped up and down enthusiastically. Her teammates were out, but she was still standing as she triumphantly mocked "I won! I won!"
It was then I snapped out of my glory basking and realized something. I was still "in." No one had hit me, no one had caught any of my throws, largely because I hadn't thrown any. I wasn't out yet. Apparently, my knack for invisibility was better than anyone could have ever imagined. Shrieka, in her arrogance and tunnel-vision, had been so obsessed with taking out Alec, she didn't notice the tiny little kid whose name she didn't even know huddled in the corner of the court with nothing left to hide behind.
"Wait a minute!" an out player from my team cried, "You haven't won yet!"
My heart leapt into my throat. Time slowed down again, even slower now, as my benched teammate finished his sentence, "Jay's… still… in," and I felt my body flying across the floor, my arm pulling me as quickly as it could to the nearest dodge ball that was rolling to my feet.
Had his music been around at the time, I'd have been hearing Hans Zimmer featured film battle music in my head as Shrieka slowly turned around as the seconds of the gym clock loudly slogged to the next second, and the next. I picked up the dodge ball, something I had almost never done, made the fiercest Alec-style battle face I could, and hurled it at my enemy. Shrieka still wasn't even completely turned around when she saw the ball flying at her. Time slowed more, and more, as the ball drew closer and closer, Shrieka watching it in an angry stun as it flew to her face…
… and just past it.
I missed.
Time immediately picked back up to normal speed again as the whole class, including the coach, fell silent. The call was so close, no one knew what was going to happen, I had so narrowly missed her. No "out" whistle was blown, so the game continued as both of us stared at each other – Shrieka in absolute shock, me in exasperated panic.
Instantaneously, the two of us reached for the nearest dodge ball. Mine was right by my foot, so I simply reached down, picked it up, and took aim at the still bent-over Shrieka, trying to grab a ball. Her back was completely exposed, not moving, and revealed the bright pink of her shirt. It was the perfect target, wide open, that anybody with arms could have hit. I threw the ball with all my might, and pegged her right in the back.
Mr. R blew his whistle and shouted, "Shrieka, you're out!"
Shrieka sat on the floor, staring back at me. Her look of shock was quickly turning into absolute rage, as the rest of the class stared in confused disbelief. No one believed what their own eyes had just seen. Even Mr. R himself seemed hesitant as he muttered, "Well… back team wins, I guess… good game guys."
Even after seeing it firsthand, even after the official calling of the game, no one believed it. They just kept staring at me, the one man left standing in the worst dodge ball battle our grade had ever witnessed. Half of the class couldn't believe that I, Jay, could have possibly won the game, let alone one-on-one against Shrieka, let alone without Alec. The other half of the class was wondering what the hell my name was.
The bell rang again. P.E. was out, and it was time for us to return to class. Quietly, everyone filed out of the gym and marched back to the classroom, per our orders. It was a long march back to the room for everyone, as they tried to both comprehend what just happened and leave behind the burdensome horrors of war. As soon as we were back to the room, kids immediately picked up again, chatting happily with their friends, talking about what they were going to do after school, helping each other with their homework (i.e. cheating), and returning to their seats. In the second it took to pass through the threshold of the classroom, relationships were rekindled again without so much as a second thought to the savagery of the dodge ball court. Alec and Wyatt were even busy talking just behind me, mentioning something about how our class should have a president, completely forgetting, if not even ignorant of, what had just transpired when their animalistic, id-driven natures unleashed hell upon one another via the savage victimization of Wyatt not an hour ago.
I got no praise. I got no songs of glory and triumph. I didn't get a pat on the back from the coach. I didn't even get a gold star or sticker or something. Things went back to just how they were before the battle. A nobody I once was, a nobody I was again, and all within the course of one class. Nobody even remembered that day of great horror and victory, not even myself for years and years.
Aye, memory's a tricky thing.