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No Boundaries (Fiction)

No Boundaries

DAVID LLOYD

Kids who didn’t like sports liked dodgeball because there weren’t team captains, strategies, or special skills required. There was nothing to remember. All you did was throw a big rubber ball. If you hit someone, he’s out. If he catches the ball, you’re out. If he dodges, someone grabs it and the game goes on. I was bad at most sports: too small for basketball, too timid for football, too easily bored for baseball. But in dodgeball, the small and the timid survive. Surviving was all you did. It was like being in class when I hadn’t done homework. I’d slump in the chair and squint my eyes so the teacher would look at me without seeing me, like you’d looklike at an ordinary cloud in a sky of clouds. Soon the bell would ring, and I’d survived another class.

After the coach split us into teams, he tossed a coin and handed the ball to the other side. The bravest moved forward when the coach blew the whistle. They shouted insults while small boys retreated to the back wall. Dodgeball could be vicious. Big kids used smaller ones as shields. Some targeted others because they were fat, quiet, or just unpopular. Once, a dodgeball slammed Mike Simmons’s head so hard he blacked out.

For boys who weren’t afraid, the beginning of dodgeball was as easy as stepping on ants: fifteen boys on each side, crowded together. The trick was to aim low, throw hard. My team’s top shooter was Todd Rifkin, a basketball player with long arms and big hands. The best on the other side was Jay Palmer, the football team’s quarterback. During the first ten minutes eight boys on my team and seven on the other team were hit. No one aimed at me, and I sidestepped misfired shots.

After twenty minutes only Todd, Jimmy Coleman, and I survived, with four boys on the other side. Jimmy and I hung by the back wall while Todd picked off three of our opponents When he hit Harry Connors--our football team’s fullback--a red welt puffed up on Harry’s leg. But when Todd threw at Jay he aimed high, and Jay caught the ball against his chest.

“You’re out!” the coach yelled.

So there was just Jimmy and me against the wall, and a smiling Jay Palmer with the ball. Jimmy and I kept apart and away from corners. When Jay walked to the line, he cocked his arm, focusing on me. But instead of me, he turned and popped Jimmy right on his head. Everyone--including the coached--laughed at that trick shot, which came so fast that Jimmy stood still for a while, wondering what happened. The ball hit the floor, and I grabbed it.

Jay backed up. I walked to the line, uncomfortable being the center of attention. The ball felt oversized and heavy. My teammates shouted encouragements: “You’ve got him! Nail him!” But I knew I didn’t have him. As I drew my arm back, I thought that if Jay could catch a ball thrown by Todd, there was no hope for me. My toss sank to the floor three feet from Jay, and dribbled toward him. Laughter rippled around the gym. Jay’s teammates began to shout, “Finish him off!” Jay jogged to the line as I backed away. He fired at my head, but I ducked. The ball slammed into the wall and bounced to Jay. He threw three quick shots, two I dodged by jumping left, one by ducking right. Each time the ball bounced back to Jay. His teammates stopped chanting, and I could see red blotches on Jay’s forehead.

This was a new experience--inhabiting a body that moved quickly, gracefully. I felt weightless, like an astronaut jumping on the moon. I had become one of those flies you can’t swat. You study it, wait your chance as it settles on the table, rubbing its back legs. You slam down your hand--but somehow it reappears, buzzing above your head. I was hovering against the back wall. I could detect the slightest realigning of Jay’s arms and legs, gauge the ball’s speed, and jump away just in time.

The coach blew his whistle and shouted, “No boundaries!” The order took a second to register with Jay, but soon he was grinning at me. Now he could hunt me anywhere, and circled left to force me to the right corner. I saw a chance to run behind him. But before I could, he fired at close range. The ball hit as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I fell backwards, pushed by the ball, my head slamming on the floor. I’d never felt such pain in my gut and head. Then I heard a noise around me and realized after a moment that it was my teammates cheering. I’d kept hold of the ball, cradled against my stomach.

“You all right?” the coach asked as boys filed to the locker room. “You got the wind knocked out of you.”

I nodded.

“Okay. Time to go.”

I thought that if I tried to get up, I’d pass out. The coach took the ball from me.

“Nice catch,” he said. “If that game were a sport, you’d be a pro.” He yanked me up by my hand.

I walked slowly to a bench in the locker room. I needed to sit until the throbbing in my stomach slowed.

Jay Palmer and Todd Rifkin were showered and dressed when they passed me on their way to the hall. Their wet hair was parted on the same side. Todd was saying something about Saturday night, and Jay nodded and turned his head, and his eyes met mine. I was sure he was going to say something. Maybe about the game, maybe something else. But then he turned back to Todd, laughed at words I couldn’t hear, and they walked on through the door to the next class.

DMU Timestamp: May 12, 2017 15:53





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