I revisited "Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story" on cable a few weeks ago, and it stuck with me. It's not the funniest movie I've ever seen — I always find Ben Stiller more amusing when he's playing nebbish rather than outlandish — it certainly has its moments. It also has Vince Vaughn, who has shown an uncanny ability to turn a turd into gold. (Well, except for that "Psycho" remake. That unfortunately remained in turd state for the entire movie.)
So in the spirit of revisiting a pretty funny movie, I'd like to recall some memories of high school (and column) past:
When I think "Dodgeball," I think gym class. I think about the good times, like when I, with the vertical leap of a tree sloth, spiked a volleyball on Stacey Norris' head freshman year of high school. And also about the bad times, like when I fell during the roller skating unit and broke my wrist. (I went straight to the nurse's office with my floppy hand ... and the first thing she does is take my temperature. Sling? Brace? No, I'll just hold the mercury under my tongue with the arm that isn't turning purple, thanks...)
Dodgeball, or Poisonball as we called it in Central Jersey, always had one fatal flaw: people who thought they were too good to get hit. Most of the game, they'd leap out of the way of that red rubber ball like Neo dodging a Matrix machine gun; but, occasionally you'd see one ever-so-slightly brush past their ankle or hip.
"You're out, dude!"
"Nah, man, never touched me!"
And how do you break that stalemate? Some silly concept like the "honor system?" Instant replay with the high-school security cameras?
Okay, Dodgeball actually had another fatal flaw: kids with glasses. Eventually, there's going to be some poor four-eyes who gets cracked in the small-and-beadies with a nerd-seeking missile, sending both he and his peepers crashing down to the floor in a tear-covered heap. Nothing dulls the fun of Dodgeball more than some future accountant crying about shards of glass in his cornea. Suck it up, Poindexter...
Dodgeball was a fun diversion, an excuse for the gym teachers to take a class off, and for the gym students to take their minds off the ever-approaching square-dancing unit.
But Dodgeball was a kid's game.
SPEEDBALL was a man's game.
What was Speedball? A deadly drug cocktail mix of heroin and cocaine? Well, yeah, but it was also a barbaric "sport" created by sadists masquerading as high-school educators as a way to pare down their student population through curricular bloodshed.
Through my extensive research (asking three guys in the newsroom), I was able to deduce that Speedball was primarily big in New Jersey, although variations of it were found under different names across the country. Sort of like White Castle ... and just as dangerous.
For the uninitiated, this was Speedball:
The game was played in a gymnasium split in half by a temporary dividing wall. On each end of the court was an indoor soccer net, and above it a basketball backboard and hoop. The ball was the lovechild of a tennis ball and a soccer ball — soccer-sized, tennis-fuzzy. The teams were comprised of a goalie and everyone who decided not to cut class.
The rules were an amalgamation of lacrosse, basketball, and soccer. You could advance three steps with the ball — a fourth will get you a traveling call and a turnover to the other team. After three steps, you had three options: pass the ball with your hands or with a kick to a teammate; pass it to yourself off the temporary or permanent walls to move down the court; or attempt to score. You score in one of three ways: beating the goalie with a one-bounce throw (for one point), shooting a basket (two points), or unleashing a soccer-like kick into the net from outside the goalie box (three points).
By this time, you're asking, "where's that barbarous violence we've been promised?" And here's where Speedball gets its legendary status.
The gym teachers ran this damn thing like a back-alley brawl. It was Thunderdome — two teams enter, one team leaves. More blood was spilled in high school during Speedball than during the dissection of the aorta in biology class.
If you hit a guy who had the ball, that's a foul. But hit him any time before the ball is about to enter his hands, he's fair game for a bone-crunching open-court check. Or an elbow. Or a knee to the stomach. The last two weren't legal, but most of the teachers officiating the games had the moral dogma of Tyler Durden in "Fight Club."
More dangerous yet were the bodychecks near the walls. When players would try to move down-court with short self-passes, opponents would take full-speed runs at them against the wall. After each check, the temporary partition would ripple like a post-Jet Ski tributary. It was brutal, yet somehow calming.
Noses were bloodied every game. Fingers were sprained, sometimes broken on loose balls and on-the-wall tackles. I once saw a player lose a contact lens and a tooth in the same match.
When there would be an injury or a cut or a player sent to his knees on a hit, the teacher/ref would stop play and make sure it wasn't anything actionable ... er, serious. Then it was off to the nurses' office, where she would take their temperature while blood squirted from their forearms.
As soon as the injured were cleared from the court? GAME ON!
The wonderful thing about this game was that, class after class, a cult-like code developed. We all knew this was violent madness, but we loved it. There was plenty to bitch about gym class, from the weight-lifting unit to the fact they allowed aerosol deodorant in a locker room the size of a Buick. But none of us ever, ever complained about Speedball. Because if you tell somebody that something isn't right, they take the naughty thing away, no matter how much pleasure it gives you. Sort of like telling the cable company about free Cinemax.
I, like many classmates, was not the most athletically-inclined kid. Okay, I sucked at most sports. And by most, I'm considering "Mike Tyson's Punch Out" a sport, and that should tell you something right there.
But in Speedball, I was Patrick Roy, Dominik Hasek, and Tony Meola rolled into one. I was the Greg Wall of China. My reputation as a standout keeper grew to the point where opponents were pulling up for a jumper rather than trying to bounce the ball my way.
And oh, I was a nasty goalie. When the play was back down-court and there was an offensive player standing by my crease ... hello ribs, meet elbow.
According to the Lawrence Township (NJ) public schools P.E. handbook, Speedball's educational benefits included "improved self-esteem." I can't argue with that, although I would add "appreciation for good dentistry" to the list, as well.
Everyone has his or her "one shining moment" in high-school gym class. For my old school chum Chas and I, it happened during two Speedball games.
One day, Chas went to kick a loose ball at the same time as this kid Brian Rogan. Chuckie ended up kicking Rogan instead of the ball, and he badly spraining his toe. The pain took him to the sidelines.
As the game continued to be a close one, Dax Pearson — the starting center on the varsity basketball team — walked over to Chas on the bench. "You gotta come back in," said the 6-foot-6 jock, who'd go on to play hoops for Army. "We need you."
It would become the highest complement of the future history major's athletic career.
As for my memory, it was a little more painful, but no less rewarding.
My team was up by two points with time ticking away to the end of class. I was in goal as usual, and had to protect the lead. Suddenly, here was Brian Beyers, a soccer standout, with the ball on his foot, and with a chance to score three points for the win.
He struck that damn thing like he was in a World Cup shootout.
It sailed up, off the ground, and towards the net.
And then it hit me ... right, square in the face.
The ball dropped to the ground in front of me. The gym teacher/referee blew the whistle. Time was up. My team had won.
Under normal circumstances, a David Beckham-like boot to the grill was going to cause me to cry "ouchy" tears. But not that day. I was numb, stunned, and flushed — in my face where the ball impacted, and with victory.
That was Speedball.
And that, my friends, is a "true underdog story."
Greg Wyshynski is the Features Editor for SportsFan Magazine in Washington, DC, and the Senior Sports Editor for The Connection Newspapers of Northern Virginia. His book "Glow Pucks and 10-Cent Beer: The 101 Worst Ideas in Sports History" will be published in Spring 2006. His columns appear every Saturday on Sports Central. You can e-mail Greg at [email protected].
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