Dodgeball and the Shelf Life of the Inner Child

Okay, so I must admit that I didn’t come up with the topic for today’s column. You see, I’m not capable of original thought. And if such thinking were a prerequisite for life, I would still be a twinkle in my father’s eye, suffering some horrid, pre-embryonic purgatory.

My friends, today we delve deep into a subject that’s on all of our minds during these strange times of ours – “Dodgeball and the Shelf Life of the Inner Child.” The story goes like this:

An ambitious 30-year-old with considerable experience in the athletics and sporting goods industries begins longing for days gone by, when the only things that mattered were the contents of his lunch box and the duration of recess (which was never long enough, of course). He had been through the rigmarole of intramural soccer and softball leagues, but they failed to fulfill his masochistic urge to recapture the blacktop battles of yore.

So what does an enterprising lad such as this do to cure his itch? Well, if he were in his forties, he would have bought a convertible Corvette, shaved the comb-over and found a trophy 22-year-old blond. But he’s only 30, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

No, our friend instead decided to start Red Rover Sports – yes, Red Rover, as in the arm-breaking game that’s only acceptable because of its cute callout, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Jimmy right over.” To this day, I’m convinced that WWF-style wrestling would be another playground favorite, if only its inventors would have come up with a singsong catchphrase, like “Manimal, oh Manimal, run to me so I can break your bones, gouge out your eyes and snack on your nose.” Okay, so it doesn’t rhyme, but it’s cute don’t you think?

As the name suggests, Red Rover Sports was created to provide others with an outlet for reliving the glory days of recess recreation. And it’s first offering, you ask? Dodgeball – a sport responsible for creating more childhood nightmares than the Boogie Man himself.

Comparatively speaking, if Red Rover is the cause of early arthritis and joint disorders, then Dodgeball is the reason that half of America is stupid. Played with the same red rubber ball used in other classic childhood games like Foursquare and Kickball, Dodgeball was likely the only reason that most schools could afford to keep a nurse on staff.

As you might recall, the rules were quite simple and the objective even easier to grasp. Line two teams opposite of each other, and take turns hurling the coarse rubber ball at your opponents’ heads. If your enemy failed to catch your throw or was hit, that person was out and done for that round.

Now, keep in mind, those were the basic rules. As any self-respecting Dodgeball devotee will tell you, the real objective was to create the most horrific and violent hits possible. It wasn’t enough to graze your opponent’s foot or hip. In fact, in those cases you’d tell your enemies to get back in their line and take a hit like a man. No, you were never satisfied unless your opponents’ heads snapped back, or their legs were taken out from under them, or their bodies were sent flying through the air.

The risks of the game, then, were quite clear. And if you were lucky enough to avoid your opponent’s missile shots, you had to worry about ramming heads with your teammates during the scramble to clear a path. And nothing was worse than getting someone else’s blood on your clothes; it simple ruined your ensemble for the rest of the day (and freaked your mom out at home).

So why even bring such a game back? Because it was fun as hell, of course. Unfortunately, “was” is the operative word here. Our Red Rover Sports friend found out the hard way that the shelf life of the inner child is short – in fact, it dies when the body checks out at the age of 25.

Interestingly, the 27 people who gathered to relive the past didn’t quit because they couldn’t take the hits. After week one, most of the players showed up at work with one arm hanging about two feet lower than the other. Chants of “Hey Igor!” got old quick. You see, it was the throwing motion that “threw” their bodies out of whack. I guess you could say it was bitter irony – now that everyone was old enough to take a hit like a man, they could no longer throw like one.

So, save for a few brave souls who came back for weeks two and three of Dodgeball, the flame had died and most folks went back to enjoying the finer things in life, such as TV and the family room couch. But lest our Red Rover friend be completely disillusioned, he at least can look forward to having a Corvette, bald head and supermodel girlfriend in 10 years.