A lone bead of sweat, slowly drips from the tip of my nose as I step towards the home plate box. I scan the field and see my teammate stranded at second base. He looks to me and our eyes catch. The moment is understood. He needs to come home and I’m holding his ticket. This is the situation that separates the men from the boys. Clutch time.
Kickball in the second grade is serious business and this isn’t just a kickball diamond, it’s an operating table.
… and I’m the surgeon.
As I approach the plate, the left fielder starts to walk in a few feet. Rookie. I now know where this ball’s going. Over his head, rolling unchecked, whilst I round the bases, probably with my right arm in the air, proclaiming I’m number one, and he should’ve known better.
“Baby bouncies!”, I call out to pitcher. (roller? Not sure the call on that.) Baby bouncies was my meat. It’s what sends the ball high and deep.
A ruckus starts to escalate behind me. “It’s my turn, not yours! My turn!”, is being wailed from the line of kickers awaiting their “ups”. As I turn to scope out the situation, a blur of blue sweater and orange tinged blonde hair come at me in a rage. “It’s my turn, cheater!”.
This is the moment where all things go slow motion. Forcing my arms to fend off the incoming attack of flailing arms, I notice his head dipping toward my forearm, and the unsheathing of piranha type teeth. I shift to maneuver out of harms way, but it was too late. I could almost hear his teeth sink into the meat of my arm, which was quickly stifled by my bellow of horror. Instinct took over. I hit him. Hard. I could feel his midsection wrap around my clinched fist.
Let me pause the “Wayback Playback Machine” for a sec. I’ve always been told that when in doubt in a fight, hit the biggest guy. Win, lose or draw, you earn respect, which in some cases, could help down the line, ie; prison. At any rate, I was about to put some of that advice, to the test.
When my blow landed, I could hear the rest of his air left in his diaphragm, exit in a hurry. Problem solved, or so I thought. The group of kids gasp in unison, and piranha boy’s crutches falling to the ground right before he did, changed my opinion real fast.
You see, Chompers was that kid. The kid who had to use crutches all the time. I think it was Polio, but back in the second grade, he was just that kid. Now, he was a heap of limbs and unused walking sticks, and I was the direct cause. I mean, everything stopped. Action at the monkey bars, swings and foursquare spot fell hushed as all witnessed my crushing blow of victory over the handicapped boy who couldn’t walk without crutches.
Now Biter Boy wasn’t the biggest or the baddest, but respect was given to me from then on. I was the kid who beat up Crutches, and reveled in my new found place in kid lore.
As all things do, people forget, as did the second grade class of Washington Colony Elementary School. My tale of pure heinousness slipped into memory. That is until a third grade girl, took me behind the trees and began to pelt me with a barrage of unwanted kisses. She soon tasted fist as the recess bell sounded and I ran back to class.
Thank you for enjoying my new segment here, called simply …
“The Wayback Playback Machine”
Until next week campers, I remain your obedient servant, The CongaScribe.Advertisements
The Wayback Playback Machine 1.0