Dodge Ball - Part 2

I remember one game in particular where I had somehow managed to avoid being hit and ended up in the unenviable position of being the last man standing against a hoard of foes on the opposing team, including Stan Callister. Normally when this happened, the opposing team would gather up several balls and hurl them simultaneously at the lone holdout, who would not be able to dodge or catch them all, and would thus be vanquished in a flurry of flying limbs and minor curses.

In this instance, however, all but two of the balls ended up stuck on my side of the court. Instead of two people throwing at the same time, the opposing team just handed both balls to the Alpha-chucker Stan. I held one of the previously captured balls in my hands which I had been using as a defensive shield, deflecting incoming balls to the side when possible. With my puny arms, there was no way I could possibly win this contest, but I thought that if I could just avoid the two remaining balls and somehow keep them from rebounding back to the opposing side, I might possibly be able to force a draw by refusing to throw any balls back at the other team. It would be considered a cheap trick of course, unless I could do something to show some courage…something like catching one of the last two balls and thus eliminating Stan.

It was a crazy idea, but I couldn't dismiss it. To catch a ball thrown by Stan would be a coup of monumental proportions. I started to plan.

It would have to be a perfect throw directed right to the gut for me to have a chance at cradling the ball with both arms as it came in for the kill. Stan’s first throw, however, seemed like it was going to be off target, a bit high and to my left. As the ball came closer, however, it seemed to change course. I raised my shield ball just in time to deflect what would have been a perfect head shot. The guy had thrown a curve with a dodge ball! College baseball scouts would have been salivating had they seen that pitch. It came screaming in with such force that it nearly knocked the shield ball from my hands. Instead, it caromed off the wall behind me and bounded back across mid-field; they would have another shot at me. So long as Stan was throwing, they would likely have as many chances as they needed.

In the mean time, Stan was preparing for his second attempt. He had moved all the way to the back wall and began a loping gait towards the mid line, accelerating as he approached. It was like he was preparing to hurl a javelin. Speed and balance, form and grace, control at the edge of human performance are a beauty to behold, except when focused against your continued existence. Then it becomes a perfect terror.

As Stan planted his front foot and twisted forward, the ball was already an elongated red blur. As it left his hand, time slowed and my mind began to race with options: if it comes in high, I’ll duck and deflect, if it is low, I’ll either jump over or deflect it to the ground, if off to the right or the left, I’ll dodge the opposite direction. It soon became clear, however, that none of those conditions applied. Stan had thrown a perfect strike, and a fastball at that. There were really only two options: 1) attempt a difficult straight-on deflection where, at the speed of Stan’s throw, it was likely I would lose my grip on the shield ball and end up taking one in the face, or 2) try to catch the cursed thing.

Despite its velocity, I didn’t think I would have a better chance at catching one and winning a little glory. The ball was headed straight for my gut where I hoped to smother its heat and trap it with both arms. I dropped my shield and prepared for impact. I knew the timing would have to be perfect. Trying to soften the blow, I took a little hop backwards and arched my back to form a pocket for the projectile. As it invaded my personal space, I closed my arms around the ball as quickly as I could.

It is amazing how quickly the human spirit can cycle through emotions. In less than two seconds, I travelled a journey through fear, wonder, determination, surprise, exultation, concern and ultimately despair. Fear had been lurking ever since I stepped on the court, but didn't really bare its teeth until the opposing team handed the two remaining balls to Stan. As he let fly the second one, however, fear gave way to wonder at the beauty of the toss. A strange but steely determination set in as I dropped the shield ball and decided to go for the catch. As my arms wrapped down around the ball, I was both surprised at the force of the blow which now drove me even further back and knocked the wind right out of me, and exultant that I was in position to actually make the catch; the plan was working! My arms were in perfect position to counter the expected rebound of the ball off my midsection.

The ball, however, had other ideas. Having been hurled with what kids nowadays would call a “buttload” of backspin, it did not rebound back into my waiting arms as expected. Rather, it took a downward course, bouncing first off my thighs, then up to my arms at an oblique angle, then off my chest and grazing my chin as it escaped through the top of the trap I had so carefully laid for it. I lunged to retrieve the ball before it hit the ground, swatting desperately at the air as the ball was just out of reach.

The ball bounced. I was out.

To be so close to glory after so many years without a hope or glimpse of it, to then expect and anticipate it even for a split second, to hear it at your front door then rush to open it only to find the porch empty – the promise of glory only a doorbell ditcher – crushed my spirit. Despair rushed in to finish off the parade of brief emotions.

But only for a moment. Despair too was short-lived. A corner had been turned. Deciding to drop my shield ball and attempt that catch was a pivotal event. At that moment, my fear was centered in the ball. And for the first time in memory, rather than trying to run from or avoid it, I confronted the Beast. I faced my fear and it was exhilarating. Even though the exhilaration was temporary, it was enough. From that point on, I began to see fear differently, feel it differently. I developed an intense curiosity about it, and found that when you looked at it straight on, it would usually disappear or else shrink so small as to lose its significance. In short, it could be mastered.

And that potential, that hope, opened up the world and made all things possible. I would no longer cower or flee, but stand firm and even embrace the fears that for years held me captive. Each time I did so, I found strength. What started as an attempt to corral one simple red rubber orb sparked the courage to write, to act, to play, to work, to participate -- to meet life rather than dodge it. 
 
PS: Thank you, Stan. We miss you still.