| Harlots' Sauce Radio |
The Zen of Junior High Dodgeball Kirk Starr |
Here in Seattle, it’s known as Soak ‘Em* and back in 1979, when
I was in the seventh grade, it was more brutal than any other
game our emotionally damaged gym teacher could select from
his vast trunk of torturous and humiliating activities. Hands
down, Soak ‘Em was more painful than touch football, more
dangerous than archery, more tiring than soccer, and mortifying
beyond even the most ridiculous of square dance movements.
Early on, that simple game was probably the single most
constant reminder that starting school a year early only
benefited me intellectually; from a physical and emotional
standpoint, I was completely out of my league – pretty much a
Dodgeball practice dummy with a high-school reading level.
Soak ‘Em was never offered up merely as a suggestion;
subjecting my head, neck and groin to forty minutes of constant
bombardment was absolutely required, because middle school
P.E. instructors are all vampiric imps that feed of the negative
energies emitted by tormented schoolchildren.
But just as a Buddhist monk is thankful to his poverty for
reminding him of the true purpose of life, so must I be grateful
for having had the opportunity to learn of life’s cruelly neutral
nature at such a young age through strictly imposed violent
sports. Indeed, the hardships brought about on the Dodgeball
court are, to a diminutive twelve-year-old, every bit as significant
as the trials of monastic Buddhist life, if nowhere near as
admirably recognized.
Unlike so many other experiences that similarly offered no
choice in the matter – circumcision and inoculations are some
colorful examples – the subjugation of Soak ‘Em was something I
refused to just resign myself to. There really wasn’t much I could
take away from being stabbed in the arm with a hollow needle,
but numerous were the life lessons I took away from that form of
legalized child abuse known as junior high Dodgeball:
Endurance
Obviously, the game was all about endurance. Players had to
withstand perpetual salvos of red, rubber artillery without the
convenience of bunkers and foxholes, so we found ourselves
doing a lot of running. A lot of running. My legs being shorter
than everyone else’s, I did the most running.
Now, there were a small handful of rules, one of which outlawed
throwing “sidearm” and another that limited shots to below the
shoulders; no head shots, in other words. The latter rule was not
very well thought-out, however, or it might have been amended
to include no shots below the knees because the lumpy mouth-
breathers, already pissed off about the “no sidearm” rule,
intentionally turned their aim to the opponent’s feet.
Here’s the math: Running Full Speed + Dodgeball to the Feet =
Wicked Painful Gym-Floor Face-Plant.
I’m here to tell you - few things build one’s endurance like
ducking and weaving until completely winded before being
violently slammed to the ground. After a while, I started to
realize that the hardwood hurt less and less; the rubber slowly
but surely lost its sting.
Confidence
For the longest time, I had been content to hang in the back,
dodging and ducking; it passed the time and kept the injuries to
a minimum. But my strategy changed dramatically with the
realization that I could withstand a solid blow to the torso from
both ball and gym floor alike. It occurred to me that if I were
skilled enough with my hands, I could use this new found
invulnerability to completely turn the game around. All I had to
do was master catching the ball. If I could train my fingers to be
sticky, I could own this fucking game.
Just like that, in a single epiphany, my confidence shot up
through the roof. I moved forward from the back of the court,
implicitly challenging the largest of the lummoxes to turn their
bullying gaze upon me. At first, I was insignificant. In spite of my
new found bravado – perhaps even because of the sheer
absurdity of it – the sweaty troglodytes saw me as less than a
threat and I was mostly ignored...
...until I finally made a catch and hurled the ball at the ankles of
the largest goon present with accuracy that can only be
described as providential. The kid went down like a tranqued
silverback, and the resultant thud seemed to bewilder the
opposing team long enough for my teammates to seal victory. I
had personally eliminated two of them inside four seconds, and
even though I ended up being knocked out of the game before it
was over, I knew I’d reached a turning point and it felt great.
Strength
With the endurance to stay in the game and the confidence to get
aggressive, I was finally in a prime position to go about giving
the big guys a taste of their own medicine. Unencumbered by self
doubt and fear of bruises, I found that the entire dynamic of the
game changed completely. Their girth only made them easier to
hit, while, conversely, my smaller stature had suddenly become a
major asset. They weren’t as quick as I was, which meant that
the balls near the center line were no longer solely their easy
pickings. Dropping that first kid had shown me that pain is
universal, so I knew all that was left was to match their throwing
velocity. A cross-hatched welt on the lower back was the precise
opposite of fun, regardless of the size of the recipient.
I began concentrating, really focusing, on winging that ball as
hard as I possibly could. The temptation to slip into sidearm was
great, but the desire to remain in the game was greater. I hadn't
the physical strength of my adversaries, but spurred on by their
winces and angry barks, I found that with each throw, my
technique got better and better. And better technique meant
harder throws, my size notwithstanding. Before long, I was a
force to be reckoned with.
Oh sure, my adversaries had plenty of chances to serve up
revenge, but even as I fought to keep from having my face
shoved into a urinal or my entire head wrapped in medical tape,
I knew there’d come a day when we’d play Soak ‘Em again. That
triumphant knowledge was all I needed to survive junior high
school.
From there, it was just a matter of seeing life as one big
Dodgeball game.
June 2008
*The name has nothing to do with fluids of any kind and I use it
interchangeably with 'Dodgeball' in this essay.
I was in the seventh grade, it was more brutal than any other
game our emotionally damaged gym teacher could select from
his vast trunk of torturous and humiliating activities. Hands
down, Soak ‘Em was more painful than touch football, more
dangerous than archery, more tiring than soccer, and mortifying
beyond even the most ridiculous of square dance movements.
Early on, that simple game was probably the single most
constant reminder that starting school a year early only
benefited me intellectually; from a physical and emotional
standpoint, I was completely out of my league – pretty much a
Dodgeball practice dummy with a high-school reading level.
Soak ‘Em was never offered up merely as a suggestion;
subjecting my head, neck and groin to forty minutes of constant
bombardment was absolutely required, because middle school
P.E. instructors are all vampiric imps that feed of the negative
energies emitted by tormented schoolchildren.
But just as a Buddhist monk is thankful to his poverty for
reminding him of the true purpose of life, so must I be grateful
for having had the opportunity to learn of life’s cruelly neutral
nature at such a young age through strictly imposed violent
sports. Indeed, the hardships brought about on the Dodgeball
court are, to a diminutive twelve-year-old, every bit as significant
as the trials of monastic Buddhist life, if nowhere near as
admirably recognized.
Unlike so many other experiences that similarly offered no
choice in the matter – circumcision and inoculations are some
colorful examples – the subjugation of Soak ‘Em was something I
refused to just resign myself to. There really wasn’t much I could
take away from being stabbed in the arm with a hollow needle,
but numerous were the life lessons I took away from that form of
legalized child abuse known as junior high Dodgeball:
Endurance
Obviously, the game was all about endurance. Players had to
withstand perpetual salvos of red, rubber artillery without the
convenience of bunkers and foxholes, so we found ourselves
doing a lot of running. A lot of running. My legs being shorter
than everyone else’s, I did the most running.
Now, there were a small handful of rules, one of which outlawed
throwing “sidearm” and another that limited shots to below the
shoulders; no head shots, in other words. The latter rule was not
very well thought-out, however, or it might have been amended
to include no shots below the knees because the lumpy mouth-
breathers, already pissed off about the “no sidearm” rule,
intentionally turned their aim to the opponent’s feet.
Here’s the math: Running Full Speed + Dodgeball to the Feet =
Wicked Painful Gym-Floor Face-Plant.
I’m here to tell you - few things build one’s endurance like
ducking and weaving until completely winded before being
violently slammed to the ground. After a while, I started to
realize that the hardwood hurt less and less; the rubber slowly
but surely lost its sting.
Confidence
For the longest time, I had been content to hang in the back,
dodging and ducking; it passed the time and kept the injuries to
a minimum. But my strategy changed dramatically with the
realization that I could withstand a solid blow to the torso from
both ball and gym floor alike. It occurred to me that if I were
skilled enough with my hands, I could use this new found
invulnerability to completely turn the game around. All I had to
do was master catching the ball. If I could train my fingers to be
sticky, I could own this fucking game.
Just like that, in a single epiphany, my confidence shot up
through the roof. I moved forward from the back of the court,
implicitly challenging the largest of the lummoxes to turn their
bullying gaze upon me. At first, I was insignificant. In spite of my
new found bravado – perhaps even because of the sheer
absurdity of it – the sweaty troglodytes saw me as less than a
threat and I was mostly ignored...
...until I finally made a catch and hurled the ball at the ankles of
the largest goon present with accuracy that can only be
described as providential. The kid went down like a tranqued
silverback, and the resultant thud seemed to bewilder the
opposing team long enough for my teammates to seal victory. I
had personally eliminated two of them inside four seconds, and
even though I ended up being knocked out of the game before it
was over, I knew I’d reached a turning point and it felt great.
Strength
With the endurance to stay in the game and the confidence to get
aggressive, I was finally in a prime position to go about giving
the big guys a taste of their own medicine. Unencumbered by self
doubt and fear of bruises, I found that the entire dynamic of the
game changed completely. Their girth only made them easier to
hit, while, conversely, my smaller stature had suddenly become a
major asset. They weren’t as quick as I was, which meant that
the balls near the center line were no longer solely their easy
pickings. Dropping that first kid had shown me that pain is
universal, so I knew all that was left was to match their throwing
velocity. A cross-hatched welt on the lower back was the precise
opposite of fun, regardless of the size of the recipient.
I began concentrating, really focusing, on winging that ball as
hard as I possibly could. The temptation to slip into sidearm was
great, but the desire to remain in the game was greater. I hadn't
the physical strength of my adversaries, but spurred on by their
winces and angry barks, I found that with each throw, my
technique got better and better. And better technique meant
harder throws, my size notwithstanding. Before long, I was a
force to be reckoned with.
Oh sure, my adversaries had plenty of chances to serve up
revenge, but even as I fought to keep from having my face
shoved into a urinal or my entire head wrapped in medical tape,
I knew there’d come a day when we’d play Soak ‘Em again. That
triumphant knowledge was all I needed to survive junior high
school.
From there, it was just a matter of seeing life as one big
Dodgeball game.
June 2008
*The name has nothing to do with fluids of any kind and I use it
interchangeably with 'Dodgeball' in this essay.
| email this writer at: kirkstarr@harlotssauce.com |
