Dodgeball

I sit on one of the benches that divides the gym at half court, watching two opposing teams do battle. It is a small gym, a grade school gym with red pads against the walls to prevent kids cracking their skulls against the concrete when they get too rough. Rules of the Gym hang above the door, big block letters scrawled in blue Sharpie, and I can picture third graders sitting Indian style, reciting them before the portly gym teacher gives a lesson on fundamentals.

Fundamentals. Dodgeball fundamentals.

The orange team has them mastered. Throws are to the knees or below. They stay low, eliminating target space. Two girls slide around in the back on kneepads, stopping ricochets and deftly handing them off to the three guys with toned, cannon arms up front. They hold two at a time, gauging their target as the team refs count down from ten. At three, they let loose, knocking out two, leaving one. They take the Vancouver Dodgeball League seriously. The red team puts up a valiant effort, but are no match for the ruthless speed and coordination of orange. I make a note to be patient when we play orange. Patient for the throw that sails just above the knees for a catch.

Geoff and Vlad huddle as the game ends, talking in audible voices and making motions with their hands. I come off the bench and follow them onto the court, glancing back at the other game. It is a showdown. Girl on girl.

Only one victor.

I swallow as I lean against the wall, waiting for our game to start. I look down at the veins in my right wrist, my knuckles stretching back, pulling the fingers, tightening the skin around the wrist so the veins pop.

Only one victor.

I squeeze my eyes shut, take a breath and open them. I force them to focus on our opponent. The guys have one foot and one hand touching the wall, as required by the rules, and crouch in a sprinter stance. The girls huddle against the wall. I look at our team. Geoff is on one side, Vlad on the other. He points to a ball, the wall above him and then himself. Geoff nods as “3-2-1 Dodgeball!” echoes around the gym.

The rules are simple for coed dodgeball in the Vancouver Dodgeball League:

• At least two girls from each team must be on the court to start.
• When you pick up a ball, you have ten seconds to throw or it is dead and you must roll the ball to the other side.
• No headshots. No high throws.
• Get hit, you’re out.
• Catch, person who threw is out and one of your team comes back in. That player must touch the wall before picking up a ball.
• Two volunteers from teams not playing must officiate.
  • There are four officiates, two at each end of red tape that is stretched across the floor.
  • The volunteer officials are responsible for the ten second count down, calling hits and catches, and resolving disputes if they arise.
  • If there is a problem, members from the Vancouver Dodgeball League step in.

The ten second rule brings speed to the game, and teams that learn to remain calm and execute often win. One catch can change the game. Experienced teams know this, and construct strategies to eliminate the strongest players first. Those who play later have an advantage as they can study the opposition, and discover the sleeper players like me.

I can launch a softball from deep right field to home plate on one perfect bounce, or send it laser-like into the glove of the second baseman, but my dodgeball throws are errant. They either fall and bounce at the feet of the intended target, or float gently into open arms. Throw at me though, and you are likely out. By the third game, throws are coming with speed and velocity that makes my arms and chest sting. The force from the strike, coupled with my bear hug to keep the ball from ricocheting off me seeps through my shirt. My collarbone stings. Red lines start to show along my forearms, the ribbing of the ball searing itself into my flesh. I relish the sensation. A throw from my blindside smacks into my face. The impact reverberates through the cheekbone as the sting flares. I step to the wall on the sideline where two of my teammates have been waiting for a catch.

“Shit man. You OK?”

“Yeah I’m fine.”

One catch and two well timed throws later, we win, shake hands and retreat to the benches. The player who hit me pauses while shaking my hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I let go too early.”

“Thanks. No worries. It happens,” I say as I shake his hand. He pats me on the shoulder before rejoining his team on the far bench.

We’re done for the night. Took three out of five. A good showing. The orange team dominated everyone. They will be tiered up.

I put my jeans on over my athletic shorts, slip on my black shoes and pack my sneakers in my backpack. I don my Boston cap before my hoodie and jacket, and follow Geoff and his wife out of the gym.

“That guy apologize?” Geoff asks.

“Yeah.”

“That looked like a nasty hit,” his wife says. “Let’s see.” We pause in front of the school, in the light, so she can look. “A bit red, but looks OK.”

“Good. Thanks.” No blood. I got off easy. Stupid. Deserve to be hit.

“Get in,” Geoff says as we reach their car. “We’ll give you a ride.”

His wife opens the back passenger side door before I can say no.

“Thanks,” I say as we all get in the car.

“Where do you live again? Kits right?”

“Yeah. 8th and Yew.”

We talk about the games, the orange team and the games we saw snatches of on the other side of the gym. They drop me off in front of my building 12 minutes later, and wait for me to enter before driving away.

Thighs tighten and burn in protest as I walk up the three flights of stairs. The lower back sends a reminder of the awkward twist in Game 2 that succeeded in avoiding a hit. The cheek bone registers its complaint as I pause in front of my door to fish keys from a pocket.

Apartment 311. Beautiful disaster.

I open the door to my apartment. I drop my bag, but keep my shoes on and head for the fridge. I pour myself a glass of skim milk, and down it while staring at the knives, hung neatly on magnets my mother bought when she came to visit last June. She has been to every apartment I have lived in, every dorm room, sweeping it with her eyes so she gets a sense of place.

“It helps me to have a visual,” she says at each place.

“I know,” I answer as I busy myself with unpacking something.

She organized my kitchen, finding the most efficient place to put utensils, seasoning and dishes. I didn’t have knives, so she packed three of hers in her luggage. A butcher knife. A serrated knife. A pairing knife. I had no wooden block to sheath and protect them, and such little counter space there was no point in getting one. She saw my magnetic poetry on the fridge, and when we went to the hardware store to get hooks, she bought three rectangular magnets. They sit on the side of the fridge that faces the cook top, each holding a knife through the force of physics.