the glory and the terror of dodgeball

I’ve dodged many things in my life—work, household chores, phone calls from my family (sorry, mom)—but I am largely incapable of dodging balls. I found that out on Tuesday, Feb. 26, when Wire editor (and absolute chump) Matt Kanner and I joined members of the New Hampshire Sports & Social Club for an evening of dodgeball domination.

I had few preconceived assumptions about the game. The last time I played dodgeball was in elementary school, and my only other relevant experience consisted of a handful of viewings of that Ben Stiller movie. I was prepared for two things, though: a) that I would probably fail miserably in my dodgeball endeavor, and b) that I would, despite athletic ineptitude, still kick Matt Kanner’s ass nine ways to Sunday. Neither of those things happened. However, I was—and remain—impressed by the absolute intensity of NHSSC dodgeball.

Granted, my perception of intensity is slightly skewed. My typical exercise regimen consists largely of walking to and from the bar. But the men and women of the NHSSC play dodgeball like it’s their job—albeit a fun and payless job. Balls fly across the court and slam into the concrete walls of the gym with loud smacking sounds. And, when you’re staring down a half-dozen guys and gals ready to pummel you with blue and red foamy balls, it’s hard not to feel a bit like William Holden at the end of “The Wild Bunch,” facing down that Mexican firing squad.

In the first 10 minutes of Tuesday’s match, two of my teammates collided in mid-dodge, with one of them taking an elbow to the forehead and walking off the court with blood trickling down the side of his face (don’t worry—he was back in the next game). On the sidelines, a teammate with a broken arm (earned during the legendary Feb. 5 season-opening match that resulted in four arm injuries) cheered us on. These people, I thought, are professionals. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even find an orange shirt to match the rest of my team, Multiple Scoregasms. I was certain that my poor fashion sense and display of spirit would cause my own teammates to turn on me. Instead, they welcomed me with open arms and set me on the path to greatness.

I was eliminated immediately in the first game, but I soon developed a strategy. I hung back, venturing toward the blue dividing line only to make a few weak throws. By mid-match, I fared slightly better and, in one match, I scored the game-winning hit. Dodgeball glory is short-lived, though. Minutes later, I was back on the sidelines, wondering how that yellow ball managed to curve so far to the left and whack me in the chest. Matt didn’t fare any better. He, too, spent most of his time on the sidelines, “writing notes” and “taking pictures”—secret journalistic code words for “being a chump too scared to get back on the court.”

During a few games, when there was a pause in the hail of brightly colored balls, I looked around and realized that I was the only person left on the court. Don’t confuse this with athletic prowess. My survival was more a combination of cowardice and the opposing team’s innate awareness that I posed no threat whatsoever. Those fleeting seconds when I was alone on the court, about to be hit with a barrage of balls, were glorious.

Not so glorious was the multitude of hits I took. My legs and stomach were easy targets; one ball missed my unguarded man-parts by only a few inches, and, during one of the final games, I took a hit square in the mouth. And no, Matt, it did not knock my sideburns off—these babies are 100 percent real and 100 percent awesome.

No dodgeball game is complete without a round or two of beers afterward, and in the spirit of sportsmanship, I bought Matt a beer. Our dodgeball rivalry has cooled, but the NHSSC has ignited a rivalry between Matt Kanner and I that will never be extinguished. Well, at least not until that chump buys the next round.