If You Can Dodge A Wrench, You Can Dodge A Ball...

Me with three of the vanquished

It's that time again! That wonderful time of year when our local Girl Scout Service Unit holds its annual Leader-Daughter Event! A chance to spend time with the girl who is the reason I became a leader. Just me and Margaret and a chance to make some memories that no one can ever take away from us. A time when she doesn't have to share me with the whole troop. A time when I can hand her complete and crushing defeat and do a humiliating victory dance all over her prepubescent pride.

Yes! It's time for the Leader-Daughter Dodgeball Tournament! I know I blogged on this last year, but the smell of victory is so sweet I simply must re-live the rush!

A little strutting goes a long way in terrifying your enemies

You see, I always sucked at dodgeball. I hated the game. We called it Bombardo but it was the same thing. A chance for the bullies to cream us into weeping submission while being cheered on by a crew-cut weilding psychopath...oh, sorry, I mean gym teacher. Miss "Smith," (it was ALWAYS a Miss) thought the game built character. And even if it only served to cruelly crush the self-esteem of a pimply and well-read few, at least it managed to teach the bigger, dumber kids that for a short time in their lives, they would be stars. She wore that crew-cut very well, too, I might add.

El Conquistador - as I now wish to be known by my troop - expert ball handler...oh...wait...

Arguments relating Dodgeball to unfair and bloody tribute in Roman colisseums fell on deaf ears as these dictators of P.E. got high from watching kids humiliate each other - just like they did in their youth.

Ah, but I digress. Back to the present.

Noooooooooooooo! I can't be out! Oh the humanity!

The Leaders went into this match with last year's slaughter (we won 7 to 0 - but are too mature to remind them) ringing in our ears as our arteries hardened with placque. Middle-aged and a tad heavier than last year, there were only five of us to their ten. The odds were against us. And the way we were breathing heavily after walking down seven steps to the gym floor gave us cause for concern. These girls were several inches taller and one year older than last year. They played dodgeball all the time. Things didn't look good for our weary band.

We few...we happy few...we out-of-shape Band of Leaders...

We smeared 'em, 3 to 2.

I suppose we should've felt bad about the smack talk as we wheezed back up into the church common room for ice cream. We probably should have said something wise and memorable to set it all straight. We certainly should have displayed good sportsmanship. At least, in hindsight it seems like it would have been a good idea to do so. It might have been a smidge over the top to do that endzone dance and make the "Losers" put everything away.

And as our aching muscles whined and joints creaked as we eased slowly into our minivan-chariots and drove off into that good night. We few...we happy and victorious few... felt pretty damned good.

The Assassin