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Sweaty Hands and Red Balls
Kyle Jennings

Before I was seventeen, I never considered myself  a winner. The word loser al-
ways followed me like a shadow. In the sports I participated in, like baseball, all I 
ever received were “thanks for trying” trophies. I never had one that said
CHAMPION. For one night, I was a champion on a carpet court in front of  
screaming teenagers. 
 I remember sitting in my friend’s red Oldsmobile. We were parked on a 
country road in Delaware County, northeast of  Indy.  I held a flyer calling out the 
best dodgeball players the county’s high schools had to offer. Delaware County 
is home to seven high schools. While I only attended one, yearly county tourna-
ments for school events were a big deal, always bringing the biggest crowd and 
selling out the gymnasium.  Muncie South, Muncie Central, Burris, Wes-Del, 
Wapahani, Delta, Yorktown, Daleville. The school I belonged to was Wapahani. 
I asked my friend, Selvey, if  he wanted to do it. I’m not sure what compelled me 
to want to do this. Selvey and I were seventeen and not the most in shape or most 
limber of  people. Also, we are at the bottom of  the clique chain; would we even 
know enough people to join us?
 Our first stop was at a kid named Evan’s house. I only knew Evan 
through the grapevine of  others, like Selvey. I attempted to persuade him to 
join our team and our cause. What I didn’t realize was he was a hippie. Or 
what I imagined a hippie to be. He replied, “I don’t do sporting events for men 
to watch,” or whatever the hell that meant. Selvey and I accepted our loss and 
proceeded to leave when his sister stopped us. I don’t remember how old she was. 
She gave us a long speech on how she was listening and wanted to join, a speech 
that I missed because my teenage self  just couldn’t stop thinking about how at-
tractive she was. Sarah was her name.
 I’ve never considered myself  a lucky kid. But on this day, my luck 
changed. As we were leaving, Evan’s cousin was pulling up. Another kid from my 
school was just a grade below me. His name was Austin, and this kid couldn’t stop 
smiling at the excitement of  joining our team.
 We arrived at the venue, a church surrounded by cornfields with a gym-
nasium attached to the side of  it. The gym court was carpeted, with a running 
oval overlooking the court. There were bleachers set up on the backside of  the 
court. We checked in with the lady wearing a lanyard. We told her of  our lack 
of  two players, for which she found volunteers—Matt and Julie. Eight teams 
represented four schools. We were the second team formed from Wapahani, and 
the other group was the jocks of  our school, the baseball and basketball players 
joining forces for one purpose, to win.
 The rules were simple, hit another player or catch a ball to eliminate the 
opposing team. For added intensity, there was a backboard rule; any time a team 
hit the backboard, the eliminated players could come back in. The bracket was 

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set on a giant dry-erase board, the national anthem was sung, and game time.
 We were up first. Matt and Julie assured us they had our backs and 
wanted to win. The silver bleachers filled as our teams stood across from each 
other. The balls being used were small red foam with a plastic covering. They flew 
accurately for about ten feet but were unreliable after that. The ref  blew the whis-
tle, and we rushed forward to the balls sitting on the centerline. Within seconds, 
balls were flying, and team members were dropping but at a slower rate than the 
other team. Behind all that grinning, Austin was a talented player, followed by the 
blonde stranger, Matt, who joined our team. With their prowess, we won the first 
game. Our teamwork in the first game wasn’t bad. Callouts on what other players 
should do were floating around us. Sometimes it got hard to hear with crowd 
noise. 
 Our sister team won easily, followed by an all-senior team and another 
team full of  guys with cut-off sleeves. The sleeveless team was going to be our 
next opponent after a small intermission. The intermission consisted of  a pastor; 
it was a church event, sharing some stories about Jesus, then a snack break of  
juice and cookies. Not sure why us being teenagers, there were juice boxes.
 The next game was on—us versus the sleeveless kids. These kids were 
more vocal than the previous team. There was no strategy amongst themselves, 
and they were all shit talk. On wild throws, they retorted with, “You suck, you 
sissy.” A whistle blew, and it was go time. This team was better than the previous 
team, as their accuracy was on point. Selvey and Evan’s sister, the less agile of  our 
squad, were eliminated first. I managed to get an accurate throw to take out one 
of  their players but was taken out by a two-on-one. Again it was down to Austin 
and Matt. The two of  them against the remaining four. Even if  the backboard 
got hit, my team was looking tired. Selvey breathed deeply, and  Sarah had sweat 
rolling down her exhausted red face. And Julie, who volunteered to join, looked at 
her as if  she was somewhere else. 
 Matt was hit in the shoulder, leaving just Austin, still grinning. I don’t 
know how he did it. Four guys were throwing what seemed like twenty balls at 
him. He hurled that red dot into the backboard on the other side, allowing us to 
come back in. The sleeveless team drilled the backboard behind us out of  fear 
or just plain dumb. It was back to six on six. Matt wiped out three with a second 
wind, with Sarah getting one and myself  clearing out the remaining two. 
 Our sister team was up. This all-senior team was larger than them. Their 
teamwork was centered on great callouts and who should have a ball. Our sister 
team’s game plan was to just throw the ball. There was no teamwork in throw-
ing together. It was whoever got a ball that threw it. With this strategy, they were 
quickly defeated before they could hit the backboard.
 Watching the match, the adrenaline crept in. I remember just thinking 
about playing in a dodgeball championship match, which made my hands shake, 
and I was sweating. This was the first time I would be in a sporting championship 
battle. I felt like, at this point, I was tired of  participation. The senior team trotted 



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to the bench we were sitting at and wished us good luck. I could see on their faces 
how defeated they were.
 Either the gym became hot, or the adrenaline pulsed, and sweat soaked 
my clothes. I was becoming worried if  I could throw a ball. The two teams lined 
up; the full senior team, I gathered, was from a school just north of  our school. 
To this day, I wonder if  those seniors were as nervous as I was. Were my other 
teammates’ hands sweating? The whistle blew, and we charged. They charged. 
I imagined this is what a medieval fight would have looked like, with two lines 
opposing catapults hurling rocks.
 It was even at first, if  we lost one, obviously Selvey, we got one of  theirs 
to counter. This jab-for-jab went on until there were two left on both teams, with 
the grinning Austin and Julie on ours. I was hit trying to catch a ball, something 
that’s hard to do when they are that small. The seniors hit the backboard first, 
Austin drilling the backboard seconds later. I can remember the crowd roaring as 
both sides were filled to full. 
 The seniors must have learned of  our secret weapon; they aimed for 
the grin and got it—their pitch-perfect callouts pointing who needed balls to get 
the job done.  Luckily the blonde took out two before he was gone, followed by 
Selvey. The sister traded with one, followed by the brunette. That left a two-ver-
sus-one situation for me. I by no means was a flexible kid, with a six-foot build 
and two left feet. It felt like a puppeteer was pulling my limbs by strings when I 
dodged two shots and threw an accurate shot to eliminate one.
 I remember freaking out. Time was almost like it was still. The last 
remaining player was wearing a multi-shade green shirt with the word TIGERS 
across the chest. Was it respect or luck? He didn’t throw it when  I was reaching 
for a ball. We stared at each other, and I didn’t want to make the first move; I was 
as good as gone if  I missed. He made the first move and threw. I remember that 
ball being accurate and fast, but somehow I dodged it. I sucked my gut in and 
curved my back, the ball whizzing by. He had no choice but to step forward to 
grab another ball. I threw mine. Taking no time to aim, I threw it. The ball flew, 
descending quickly until it hit him on his exposed shin and bounced off. 
 The gym erupted in cheers, and the court was filled with bodies. I was 
high-fiving kids I didn’t even know. The moderator of  the tournament gathered 
my team in the middle of  the crowd. We were awarded a hundred-dollar check 
for winning, which didn’t split six ways evenly, so I don’t know why it was a hun-
dred. Also, there was no trophy or plaque. Why have a tournament if  you are not 
going to hand out a trophy?