“Balls or Nuts?”
“Balls or Nuts? – A Third Grade Lesson in Balls, Brains, and Boundaries.“
The red rubber missile was already airborne when I realized Bobby Deslin was about to become a legend—one way or another. We were up by one point, and the bell was due to ring any minute. Big Bobby Deslin was up for the other team, and hopes ran high for the soon-to-be come-from-behind kickball heroes. Big Bobby Deslin wasn’t just big for third grade—he was big for any grade, with the kind of soft-around-the-edges bulk that suggested his mom packed extra Twinkies. I was athletically thin with a confidence that had been tested here before in half-court basketball, tetherball, and even foursquare. I was prepared for this test, designed for only the highest-level athletes.
As the red rubber ball was “pitched,” I could tell it was perfectly set up for him. It rolled slowly and had just a little bounce that, when timed well, could lead to an easy homer. I saw it coming and immediately began backpedaling into the outfield.
Bobby’s foot connected with that ball like Thor’s hammer meeting a cherry tomato, and no matter how far back I had moved, it still managed to sail over my head. But this is where I shine. I had wheels. I was the fastest kid in my grade, with shelves full of blue “Field Day” ribbons to prove it. I turned and sprinted toward the departing ball. By the time I corralled it and turned, Bobby was rounding second. He was going for it all. In kickball, you can “tag” someone while holding the ball or, quite literally, “peg” them with it, as one might in dodgeball, to record an out. However, pegging someone with the ball comes with much risk. If you missed your target, that ball sailed into a neighboring field, and the runner could fly past other bases.
In this case, neither of us had anything to lose. It was kiddo-y-kiddo—the two top athletes of Comstock Elementary going head-to-head for all the marbles. I reared back like a major league closer with bases loaded. Once he realized I’d retrieved the ball, his plan to score ceased. He would take what he could get, and what he could get was third. After all, he was already halfway there. My ball was sailing right on target when Bobby decided to slide into third.
Boeeam! The sound echoed across the playground like a rubber thunderclap as the red rubber missile struck Bobby in the head amidst a plume of red dirt before he reached the base. “Out!” my entire team screamed in unison as we all gathered at home plate and celebrated a certain victory. I was a recess hero.
I soon looked over at Bobby, still in his sliding position, frozen in time. He looked up at me with an expression of someone who’d just discovered that karma wore Velcro sneakers. The mood shifted quickly. Bobby got up and ran up to me. “You hit me in the head!” he explained, obviously angry. I wasn’t sure how else to respond other than to say, “Well, you slid, or I’d have just pegged you in the butt.” This did not help. Bobby stood toe-to-toe with me. “You wanna fight?” he yelled in a tone that sounded more like a statement than a question. I was speechless. Bobby was my friend. I beat him fair and square, and despite my impressive athletic prowess, there was no way I could have aimed for his head and actually nailed it from that distance. Hitting his head was collateral, and apparently, consequential. I couldn’t think of anything to say, but his look told me this fight was happening. I wasn’t upset in the least. What should I do?
In my amateur, third-grade fighting brain, I decided I’d better get the first shot in, or he might kill me – yeah, that’s the idea! I started to punch him in the face when my subconscious reminded me that I didn’t want to fight. Mid-punch, I turned my fist sideways, effectively slapping him in the neck instead of landing the round-one ending blow to the face. Bobby immediately responded with an uppercut to my solar plexus, putting me on my butt, gasping for air. As he stood over me, a teacher ran up to “break up the fight” -as if it weren’t already over.
Bobby and I walked back to class together, talking as if nothing had happened. After all, we were third graders with mutual respect as elite athletes, and we knew we had to press on. Plus, we’d become tougher than we were when we arrived at school that day.
But what of life lessons? ‘Did you learn anything from this experience?’ my teacher would later ask. Well, one thing is sure: I never punched another third-grader again. Though I still can’t say whether what I did that day took balls or if I was just nuts. But maybe in third grade, they’re the same thing.