I had to choose a physical activity elective in college to meet the school’s physical fitness requirement. I could have gone with something conventional like weight lifting, tennis, or running but I wanted to stretch my boundaries (that’s part of what college is for, right?) so I decided to try handball.
Handball is a little known sport. Racquetball is the better known court game and with good reason. Handball is not for the faint of heart. The key differences between the two court games center on the ball and the equipment to return the ball.
Unlike the racquetball, the handball is a nearly solid piece of hardened vulcanized rubber. This increases the amount of energy that it can return when it bounces. It is also smaller in size making it a harder target to see.
The second difference is the equipment used to return the ball. In racquetball you get a nice solid racquet to bat at the ball with. In handball it’s your own fleshy palm that takes the beating. The only protection you get is a kidskin glove that mitigates scratches but really does nothing to soften the blow. I’ve seen people unable to remove their gloves after a match because their hands had become so swollen. They had to soak their hands in ice water to get the gloves off.
Despite of the rigors the class was full to capacity and after learning the basics of the sport the instructors put us in a round robin style tournament. We would play one match per day and the winner of the match would be the one that got to 21 points. One particular match stands out in my mind.
I was playing against a slightly younger guy. He was blond, tall, but not very athletic. He walked slightly stooped. He was heavy but not fat. I recall that he had a very lethargic demeanor. He just seemed to not want to be in the class and had an attitude of wanting to get this out-of-the-way and move on with his day.
We barely exchanged a word as the match started. It soon became apparent to me that this guy was just going through the motions. I quickly began racking up points. 8, 11, 15, finally the score reached 18 to 3 in my favor. I was feeling cocky and felt some disdain for this guy. He was barely trying after all. Yet at the same time I felt pity. Part of my brain thought “no one should lose like that. Give him a few points.” So I deliberately lost the service and let him serve.
I missed some easy returns and soon the score was 18 to 6. I figured that was good enough. Time to finish this off. But then something happened. His serves started coming with more force, his returns were running me back and forth and making me slam against walls.
18 to 12, 18 to 15. Had he been gulling me? If he had it was a masterful performance. Did I just totally misread this guy and was he in fact a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
Whatever the case may be, I was breathing hard and rivulets of sweat were pouring down my face, stinging my eyes. I dove and missed another return. 19 to 18 in his favor.
The next point seemed to go on forever. Finally I caught a return by the very tip of my middle finger flexing it farther back than it should go. Somehow my finger didn’t break off and sent the ball back. The ball just barely tapped the front wall and fell flat, taking him by surprise and making him miss. I had the service back.
My finger throbbed in pain. I felt sure it was either broken or dislocated. He sauntered back to receive my service. The smirk on his face irritated me. I smacked the ball as hard as I could and lobbed the service right through where he was standing. It made him scramble to get out-of-the-way. An “ace”.
19 all.
The fingers on my left hand wanted to fall off. No choice but to serve with my off-hand. Barely any strength in my service. We go back and forth. A lucky return into a corner and the ball ricocheted all over the place. No chance for him to return.
20 to 19. Game point.
Another weak slap and we bob and weave all over the court. He returns a power shot straight back to me on my left side. I have no choice. Punching the ball is not illegal though it is rare and for good reason. It feels like I’ve punched a sledge-hammer coming straight at me. I can feel a jolt of pain shoot up my arm. It must have looked as painful as it felt because he just stands there gaping as the ball contacts the front wall and bounces on the floor.
game.
He mumbles the customary “good game” and leaves. I don’t believe I ever saw him again. As for me I head over to a nearby bus stop cafe and buy a giant cup full of ice and stick my hand in it for the rest of the morning.
I had nearly lost the match because I had not developed my competitive instinct sufficiently. Lord knows I don’t approve of carrying competition to extreme levels but I also have to be wary of being totally docile. That type of passivity can also be a vice.
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