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Two flash memoirs on recess and painful moments
My therapist has encouraged me to continue recounting memories from my childhood. Whether they are positive or negative, these can be catalysts for healing and genuine closure.
I have produced not one but two flash memoirs from elementary school. They involve recess, ball games, and pain. That’s what BD/WD passengers deserve.
Cue the recess shenanigans.
Nothing elated me more than kickball day. Mr. M. was the gym teacher. He lugged the cones and balls in a yellowed net. He looked like he was off for some grand adventure. During warmups, he kept repeating the word Tallahassee, drilling it into our heads. Tal-La-Has-See! Some kids asked why he liked Florida so much, yet he never answered. We all had nicknames when on offense. Mine was “Mr. Cool”. Yet my leg strength and childhood obesity were only good for a base hit. Maybe an RBI if I was in the middle of the rotation. The giant child of us all, A., had the power to send it sailing over the concrete wall. Sometimes cars would zip by as the outfielders in navy tracksuits pursued the homerun ball. I was glad to be on his team. There was one kid, E., who loved playing shortstop. He crouched with his hands between his legs, like he played baseball. The pitcher rolled it fast, and it all unfolded like a movie. A. swung his giant foot back. Collides with the ball. Flies over the ducking pitcher, right for E. E. jumps, gets clobbered in the face, and hits the ground with a sickening whump. With a bloody knee exposed, I could see his reddened face etched with kickball patterns. He wailed in pain. Some kids on his team demand an Out. Our team, even Mr. M., went slack jaw. I guess that’s what remorse feels like.
Pain and other things that bounce
During a free gym period, the game, “Red Butt,” was chosen. A bastardized, racquet-less Squash with dreadful consequences for the less agile. The assembly of kids garnished many spectators and participants. I played it safe in the back until a crooked serve caught me off-guard. I fumbled the tennis ball and scrambled toward the wall. My arms were fully extended, craving the rough, water-logged brick. But the whomp of the ball beat me. Exasperated, I looked back to see S., of all people. My recess buddy decided my fate. I stood against the wall and breathed in the moisture. I could hear warm-up bounces and the chuckling of the firing squad. Then, the searing pain in my lower back and ass. I felt everything tense. Adrenaline-fueled, I seized a static ball and chucked it at S.’s head. I couldn’t remember if I hit him. I exited the game with hands in my pockets and darkened spots on my azure polo. The pain subsided by lunch. Or seeped into my heart. I really wasn’t sure.
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