I could have titled this post ‘Dodge Ball’, but that is only the lead-in topic.
First, I need to explain that I am not a competitive person when it comes to playing games. In my younger days, my performance in any type of game was generated by fear of failure. I still have memories of specific failures that haunt me to this day. If I happened to end up on a winning side I did not gloat. I was just glad it was over!
Let me talk about the game of “dodge ball”. We occasionally played it during gym class at Luck Pubic High School, using ‘school-yard rules’. There are two teams on opposite sides of a court. You try to hit a member of the opposite team with a ball. If you hit them, *they* move off the court. If they catch the ball instead, *you* move off the court. You can go back on the court if you are of, by grabbing a loose ball and hitting one of your own players on the court (not an official game rule). The winning side is when there is one player left on the court.
For a geek, I had very good reflexes, which gave me a good dodge ball player reputation. When it came to choosing sides, I was within the first few to get picked. It was always the awkward, gangly, underdeveloped kids who where were picked last. They were also the ones who got the most balls thrown at them.
We played with red rubber balls in two different sizes. The games were fairly painless until the introduction of a third size ‘small’ ball. It could be easily held in one hand and you could really wail it at someone. You weren’t supposed to aim for the head, but it was inevitable that ball and head would meet many times during a game. Even though it was a blow-up rubber ball, it could hit the body pretty hard. During one game I was hit so hard with a small ball that the logo stamped on it branded me on the thigh. You could see the logo on my leg for days!
This leads me to the main topic of this post. You may surmise that I named this post because one of those small balls hit me in the face, but you would be incorrect. As I said before I was pretty nimble, so at the end of many games I was the last one standing. This pissed off some of the jocks in my class. How could a geek like me out last the basketball and football players?
During one game, I was the last man standing on my side, but there were three on the other. They kept trying to hit me, but I evaded the balls. I could see they were getting agitated. They were yelling at me. The gym coach blew the whistle for some reason to temporarily halt the game. One of the players on the opposite side, Billy R., a football jock, walked up and confront me face-to-face. He was yelling at me, but I do not recall what he said. I looked down and noticed his fist clench up. The next thing I remember, I was getting up off the floor. I don’t know how how long I was out after he punched me in the eye. We ended up playing another game before gym period was over. My payback was I beamed Billy R. in face with one of the small balls!
I had a shiner for the next few days. One of Billy’s close friends, Alan M., uncharacteristically sat next to me in study hall to admire the black eye. I think Billy sent him over to get a sense of whether I would eventually retaliate. I never did. I don’t think Billy and I ever talked after that. We didn’t hang with same crowd or take the same classes or have anything in coomon.
So, that’s the story of how I got my first black eye.
Oh, one more thing … the gym coach who blew the whistle to stop the game before Billy threw the punch? Billy’s father, Ed R. …