Several weeks ago, the Mercer Island School District voted to ban the game of Tag on school grounds. I guess it had something to do with safety or that odd thing our society seems to have about touching one another.
No matter. I guess we felt the need to suck all the fun out of a child’s life these days. We’ve already removed the teeter-totters, monkey bars and merry-go-rounds from playgrounds. I’m sure Red Rover, Red Rover is on the verboten list, as is just about any other fun thing we used to do as kids.
I can’t say that I will miss Red Rover, Red Rover, as I am the last one anyone ever sent over. I was not the sporty kid in the class. I wasn’t a John Rhode, who seemed to do everything well. Hell, I wasn’t even a Doug Otterson or a Danny Eades. I was in my awkward phase, which extended from kindergarten until, well, this very moment.
I didn’t get a sporty gene. Not sure where that gene landed, but it certainly can’t be found in my DNA chain.
Sure, I tried to be good at Red Rover, Red Rover. Even though I knew all too well that no one wanted me on their team, largely because I had the willowy grip of a greased pig, I still gave it the old college try, trying to use my girth as the advantage. While physics would have given me the decided edge against the gripped hands of Debbie Doutrich and Carin Peterson, my ungainly gate wouldn’t let me pick up a good head of steam. I probably could have done more damage if I had simply walked over to the line.
Inevitably, I would be captured, much to the delight of John and Danny who would break through my line of defense with ease and take the best player back to their side.
Eventually, it would come down to Dwayne Yoder and I. The last boys standing, waiting for the crushing blow of John’s mad dash across the playground. And if breaking through the line weren’t embarrassing enough, he would always take Dwayne back with him to the side of victory.
Thankfully, winter would arrive and we could no longer go outside for recess. Instead, we moved my continual humiliation indoors where we would play dodgeball. Remember the movie? I was Justin, the dorky one who got pummeled by everyone. Even Carin Peterson could knock me out of the game.
It’s not that I wasn’t good at dodging. But when you can’t run worth a damn, the dodging part of the game isn’t very effective. I was like a blimp being shot at anti-aircraft fire. I couldn’t just turn on the afterburners. I was an easy target to bring down.
It’s a good thing that we used those red rubber balls in elementary school. By the time we had moved on to high school, there wasn’t a single rubber ball to be found, largely because I went to a school in a district with a double levy failure. We couldn’t afford multiple balls. All we had were those weird balls that doubled as volleyballs and a quasi-basketball as well as a soccer ball. It was brown and pretty stout.
As you know, trying to be all things is a pretty tall order. A motor-sailer is both a powerboat and a sailboat, but does neither particularly well. The same is true with the levy-failure balls we had.
They did O.K. as volleyballs, but inevitably a rainy day would come and we couldn’t go outside to run laps or play flag football. Stuck in the gym, we would default to my least favorite physical activity – dodgeball.
Those balls hurt like hell. And I was still a very easy target. I soon learned to take the hit early. I didn’t even try to grab a ball. I just stood their and let John Rhode take his best shot.
“Out!” the coach would call and I would head for the bleachers. Eventually, we’d end up with a winner and we’d all be called back in. I would take my rightful place on the team that chose me last and once again stand still, waiting for that inevitable outing.
I used roughly the same tactic when it came to basketball season. For a time, I didn’t understand why I kept getting called out on a foul for standing in the key. I didn’t even know where the key was. The teacher never pointed it out to us non-jocks. Eventually, I found a book in the library that showed me where the key was and what the fouls were in basketball. I mastered fouling out. I would stand in the key, know some other player to the ground pretending to go for the ball and then argue with the coach for calling the foul. Another technical foul and if I did it all perfectly, I would be out in the first 10 minutes of P.E.
Point. Game. I think in my favor.
This isn’t to say that I didn’t have my strengths. As you can see, I was a terrific target in dodgeball. I was pretty good in kickball, too.
I can safely say that my kickball skills carried over into my softball days, for they largely produced the same result. I must have a keen eye coordination as well as the ability to judge the trajectory of the ball. In kickball, I could kick the ball virtually anywhere on the field. In softball, I never hit anything short of a home run.
Well, they would have all been home runs, except for that darned Red Rover curse. I could kick or hit the ball out of the park, but I still couldn’t run, even if was for my life. Even today I like to kid myself that it was the sand and rubber of Green River Community College’s turf that slowed me down. But anyone who watched me do a 13 minute mile at full tilt knows that I have the gait of a sloth and the grace of a bull in a china shop.
Wait. That’s horribly unfair. I shouldn’t pick on the lowly sloth. He got called out once on a single because I still hadn’t made it to first base.
In the Emerald City, no longer wondering why the Seahawks never answered my call,
– Robb