Darrell Farrell

I’m not the smartest guy in class. I make solid “C”’s, but that’s in average classes. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a moron, but I’m not like guys like Cope and Hinton. I don’t make straight “A”’s in the nerd classes, but I’m not Joe Croft either. In case you don’t know, Joe Croft is a sixteen-year-old eighth grader who’s schedule this year included three PE’s and four shop classes. What I mean is that I’m just an average guy[ච䤁뢦b1]. And that’s true in the looks department too. I’m about 5’3” and 120 pounds with dusty brown hair cut in sort of a bowl cut. My dad cuts my hair, but that’s another story. And I have blue eyes. You wouldn’t pick me out of a crowd for anything. At least not until this year. This year we started playing Battle Ball[2].

The first time we played, I was scared. I mean guys like Eddie Brooks and Bubba Chappell can really throw the ball. You can’t believe how bad a volleyball thrown at 100 miles-per-hour hurts when it smacks you in the bare leg or chest. I won’t even go into what happens when you get it in the face. But if you’re any good at all, the fear turns into excitement. The object of the game is to be the last guy standing. There is no second place in Battle Ball. There are only the winner, the surviving losers, and the non-surviving loosers. But I guess I’d better back-up some and explain[b㩋ʩ䤁뢦b3].

See, Battle Ball is played in the gym during P.E. It’s suppose to help get us in shape, but I think the coaches just like to see guys get creamed. You’ve never heard coach Pittman laugh like he does when some poor sloby seventh-grader gets a Brooks or Chappell kill shot in the side of his head. Anyway, half the class gets on one side of the half court line and half on the other side of the line. Coach moves everyone behind the basketball foul line on each side and then puts five volleyballs in a row on the half court line. The sixth ball he holds in his paw as he walks to the sidelines. From the glint in his eye and his silly grin, you know something violent is about to happen. As soon as both sides are ready, he blows his whistle. At the blast, the bravest guys on both teams, or at least the ones who haven’t taken their ritalin yet, charge the balls. Just as the first one reaches the them, the coach fires the sixth ball into the row of balls exploding them all over the gym. That’s when the fun begins.

The object of the game is to avoid being hit by a ball thrown from the other team while you try to throw your ball and hit a guy on the other team. If you catch the other guy’s ball, he’s out. If he catches yours, you’re out. From coach’s rumbled “Go” until the last guy is left standing, the gym echoes with the whistle of Brooks and Chappell kill shots and the stinging splat of simulated leather meeting exposed flesh. I bet years from now guys like Stork Anderson and Weasel Bagbee will wake up screaming from their experiences in Battle Ball. For me, it may end-up being the high point of my life. There’s only one winner in Battle Ball. Amazingly, that’s usually me. Darrell Farrell, King of Battle Ball.

[ච䤁뢦b1]

[2]

[b㩋ʩ䤁뢦b3]