Bombardment

fear, loathing, degradation...5th grade P.E.

 

It’s Wednesday. The most unholy day of the week. Not only is it just half way through the week, but I still have two more days to get through after it to see the glorious light of Saturday morning. Wednesday is Salisbury steak day in the cafeteria. Most kids love it. I think it tastes and chews like a rotten piece of leather smothered in bat mucus. Wednesday’s I envy the cold lunch kids. The kids who’s parents were either too cheap or didn’t care enough to let them buy their lunch. Any other day my heart would go out to their starving, neglected souls. On Wednesdays, I wished I was one of them.

Neglected children and inedible steaks aside, there was one reason I dreaded the most misspelled day of the week more than any other. One reason why my entire childhood has been full of degradation and emotional pain. The one reason that I make an attempt to fake sick every Wednesday, every week. Wednesday was the day for bombardment.

The light glared off the gym floor. A violent blaze of the harsh florescent lights dangling high above my head. A murderous spotlight shining on the battlefield of 5^th grade humiliation. This is my least favorite room in this God forsaken building.

Mr. Barnhart stood sentinel at the out-of-bounds line of the basketball court. A rusted, metallic whistle hung above his pit stained white polo shirt. He was wearing some sort of twisted perversion of shorts and sweat pants. They came down to mid-thigh, his pasty white legs hairy and unusually muscular. A pair of pristine white sneakers adorned his feet, covering a pair of tube socks pulled up to their tearing point. The only thing that could have made him a more quintessential gym teacher was a flat top. Unfortunately for him, he’d lost most of his hair by the time he was twenty-four, the rest to follow shortly thereafter.

His whistle let out a shrill cry and landed back in its trusty place on his chest. He patted his hand on it like it was a puppy and smiled. He always thought no one could see it, but I swear I’ve heard him call that damn thing “Gladys” before.

“Alright, kids,” he screamed over the din of a medium sized group of 5^th graders, “everyone line up on the blue line. Jimmy and Eric, you’re captains. Pick your teams.”

We all lined up, some of us more reluctant than others, on the blue volleyball line. Jimmy Farthing and Eric Thompson stood out in front of us, perusing our ranks like witness picking out a criminal from a line-up.

“Eric,” Mr. Barnhart said, “you get first pick.”

“Jennifer,” Eric said, the words bursting out of his mouth before Mr. Barnhart could finish.

Normally, picking a girl first was a big faux pas. At the 5^th grade level, they were just inferior sportsmen. Once we hit Jr. High/High School, though, they’ll become genetically superior in every way. It’s sad to think us men have peaked at such an early age. Eric and Jennifer were dating though, so the upper echelon of the 5^th grade hierarchy turns the other cheek.

“Mitchell,” Jimmy called out.

Mitchell Tanner. The 5^th grade’s top athlete. The first picked for everything. I heard he was making deals with the NBA for when he graduates high school. I hope that’s not true, and if it is, I hope he breaks his leg and has to be shot.

“Danny.”

“Steve.”

“Robbie.”

“Sarah.”

Of course Jimmy would pick Sarah Evans. There was a rumor circulating about them making out under the bleachers and Eric putting his hand up her shirt. I suppose the 5^th grade is the best time to start being a s**t.

“Evan.”

“Nicole.”

“Gunner.”

“Ashley.”

“Joey.”

“Ed.”

It’s down to the weird foreign kid and me. He smells like curry and looks like he hasn’t bathed in at least a week. What’s funny is, even though he looks like he should have flies buzzing around his head, he’ll still get picked before me. Compared to me, his aptitude at bombardment is vastly superior.

“Otm.”

 Otm gives me a casual, but sympathetic glance and walks to Eric’s team. No one bothers to even call my name. I lumber over to Jimmy’s team oozing with a lack of enthusiasm. I wonder if these kids will ever know what kind of emotional damage you take when you’re picked last.

“Alright, you guys,” Mr. Barnhart said after another quick shot of his whistle. Every time he says ‘you guys’ I get the distinct feeling that he wishes he were screaming ‘you maggots’ at us like a drill instructor berating a new group of recruits. “Jimmy, your team gets that end. Eric you guys on the other.”

Both teams split, finding their way to their designated ends of the gym. Some were more enthusiastic than others. Me being the prime example.

Mr. Barnhart grabbed a large linen sack. As he walked along the centerline of the court, he set several balls at almost perfect intervals from each other. Each ball was made out of foam, not inherently heavy enough to hurl at another human being. Unless, of course, you wrap them in a thin layer of latex or rubber or whatever it was they used. Perfect for leaving welts if thrown hard enough.

Mr. Barnhart walked back to the sidelines and stood with his arms akimbo. Each one of us stood at opposite ends of the gym, our hands pressed against the wall in anticipation.

“On the whistle,” he said in an overly theatrical tone, “we begin.”

An orgy of chaos erupted at the shrill cry of the whistle. The sound of thundering footsteps echoed off the walls like frightened cattle stampeding away from a gun shot in the middle of the night.

I’m not the fastest kid in the world, no one could argue that. Most of the time I make it up to the line so slow the other kids have already gotten their hands on a ball and are poised and ready to let fly in my direction. To my surprise, I actually made it before some one else. The textured latex/rubber felt warm on my fingertips. I took aim and cocked back. Billy Tabernacle’s eyes grew wide when he saw the ball release, and land squarely in his chest.

If my memory serves, that’s the first time I’ve ever gotten some one out on purpose. One other time I got some one out but only because, in mid-air, my ball collided with another and the trajectory changed and nicked the kid to the left. It was a moral victory if nothing else. But this was new. It felt good to strike with determination and see the aftermath of shame and embarrassment. I felt vindicated.

The feeling was almost gone as fast as it came. I relished in my small victory just a bit too long. This wasn’t a battle, it was a war. Some unseen force urged me to duck, just as a ball went sailing over my head. I could feel the hair on my head flutter in the jet stream. I hit the floor hard, a shockwave emanating through my body.

The look on the face Gunner Etchison was that of hunger. The look of a predator who hadn’t eaten in three weeks and suddenly stumbled upon wounded prey. His mouth widened into a grin like a pedophile at Chuck E. Cheese. He side armed the ball with all his might, clearly throwing for a kill. I blinked, and the ball was in my hands. I blinked again, and Eric Thompson was walking to the sidelines.

I got back to my feet in a rush of adrenalin. Two more people had fallen by my hand. Their numbers were thinning, and I was finally a part of that. With a quick look around, I could see ours were dwindling as well. It was up to me to end this. And I felt invincible.

I grabbed a near by ball off the gym floor, another ball sailing over my head as I bent over. No matter, they couldn’t hit me even if they wanted to. I unleashed my full power on the side of Otem’s head, sending him to the floor. Take that you foreign b*****d!

Much to my surprise, a cheer let out from the sidelines. My less fortunate teammates sitting in a neat line waiting to come back in, were cheering me on. A tingle shot up my spine. I’ve never been cheered. I should catch a few to bring some of them back in…forget it.

This is my time. I’m going to prove myself. Not just to me, but to all of them. Especially, Erin Henebry. She looks so good sitting on the gym floor in her Ghostbusters t-shirt. She was cheering me on too! Oh joyous rapture! Once I take these jerks down, we can finally be together, just like the drawings in my notebooks depict.

It was two on four. Jessica Randall gave me a pleading look, but I shot back an emotionless one. To be honest, I didn’t know what to tell her. I’ve never made it this far. We were out numbered and she was their first target. Unfortunate side effect of being a girl in a man’s war. I wonder if she’d listen to me if I told her that once her breasts develop completely, none of these guys would dare knock her out in hopes of getting to touch them.

I roll a nearby ball up on my foot and kick it up to myself not wanting to leave myself open for attack. Adam Hurwitz let fly at Jessica. She was too slow to dodge and took it on the hip. Fortunately, I took the opportunity to get him out as well. Three on one.

The cheers were rising higher, now from both sides. Mitchell Tanner, Steve Potter, and Joey Martin stood before me, spread across their half of the court. Their eyes were locked on me, targeting me like snipers finally ready to take the killing blow.

Three balls sat lined at my feet. An odd coincidental placement, but to my advantage. I took two misleading steps to the left, and they all threw in unison like synchronized swimmers. I rolled back to the right. My arm moved faster than I’d ever seen it, firing one ball after the other like a Gatling gun. Joey Martin took one in the chest. Two on one. Steve Potter ducked and the ball hit his shoulder. One on one.

Of course, Mitchell Tanner dodged my throw without much thought. His reaction time was not of this world, I swear it! The sweat rolled down my cheek as the two teams began pounding on the gym floor like tribesmen banging their drums for two warriors about to do battle.

Never in a million years would I have thought I was about to go head to head with Mitchell Tanner at anything. Under different circumstances, I’d be scared shitless. Not today, though. A steeled determination poured over every inch of my body, stiffening my resolve. I could feel the sweat from under my arms drip slowly down my arm to my fingertips. It felt good; cool and moist to the touch.

“Pick up the ball,” Mitchell said to me, nodding to the ball next to me. “I won’t hit you. Just pick it up.”

I did so, not taking my eyes off of him.

“It’s just you and me,” he said looking at the ball in his hands. I nodded in agreement. He smiled.

“Let’s dance.”

I drew my arm back. The entire fury of whatever it was that was driving me was coming to life. To my chagrin, the sweat that felt so right on my fingers, actually made the ball difficult to hold, and it slipped from my fingers.

A blinding white light flashed everything out as Mitchell’s ball collided with the side of my face. I fell to the floor and his team erupted in a chorus of cheers. I could hear their footsteps as they rushed the court, surrounding him in praise and accolades. I chose not to look up. The gym ceiling was exactly what I wanted to see right now.

My teammates surrounded me as well. I half expected to receive praise for my stellar performance as well, but I knew better.

“Good going, skid mark,” Jimmy Farthing said, and spit in my face. The rest of the team laughed and they walked away, leaving me alone on the gym floor.

Maybe next Wednesday I'll try to fake dysentery.