I am posting this again due to request, and I can post it now that it is no longer being considered for the Elise Weisel Prize in Ethics Essay competition.
A Wiffle Ball Bat
Tap, tap, tap, tap. I stood patiently
waiting for someone to come to the door, I could hear voices in the background,
and then I heard feet approach on the tiled floor of the entry way. The
neighbors’ door creaked over the crooked threshold of the frame and the hinges
made their familiar squeak. “Hi, Isaac, how are you?” I looked up at Zach’s mom
and smiled, “Hi, Cheryl, can Zach come out and play?” It was the summer break
between elementary and junior high, and my next door neighbor was the only
friend close enough to play with outside, without having to phone in advance. Little
did I know we had arrived at the age where saying, “Can so and so come out and
play” is liable to get you teased. The proper way to make a request now would
be to say, “Hi, Cheryl, can Zach hang out?”
Cheryl ushered me into the house, “Of
course. He’s in his room with a couple of friends.” I could guess who they
were. It was the usual group he hung out with; Zach was the popular kid in
elementary school. In fact, he was the leader of the group that ruled the
playground, and I did what I could to be a part of that group. I was the skinny
kid, always picked last for football or basketball at recess, but for some reason
they let me hang around. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that I
lived right next door—and during the summer he didn’t really have a choice.
I entered Zach’s small room to the
sound of video games and the smell of kids who had been out skateboarding not
long before. Damien sat in the corner observing while Zach, Randy and Chris
were leaning forward, fixated on the small television screen. I moved into the
room and found a standing position so I could watch the game. It was two versus
one and Zach was by himself, winning no doubt. He always did; that was the
general understanding and rule of my childhood. No matter what, Zach was always
going to win; he was the best at everything we did. He was tall, strong, quick,
and smart, he knew what to do before anyone had the chance to react. That was
likely what made him the leader, he wasn’t humble about being the best, but he
also didn’t brag about it. He just enjoyed winning. That was part of his allure,
the reason everyone wanted to be by his side. Good things came to you if you
were friends with Zach; I was just glad I was able to hang out with the popular
guys at all.
The round of video games ended, and
the guys figured it was time to head back into the side yard where we were
forming our miniature skate park. I was lucky, though: at this sport the only
one better than me was Zach. I could do almost as many tricks as he could;
whereas all the other boys were much further behind. Damien usually just hung
out on his BMX bike riding around in circles as we tried different tricks and
practiced using the rail we had. The problem was, when you only have a handful
of tricks, you can only repeat them so many times before you grow bored with
skating for the day. Not to mention that your ankles and shins get tired of the
constant bruises, and before long you have to call it quits.
This was the only time in the group
where I actually felt I fit in—but truth be told I still didn’t. All of these
boys were a year older than me, but we were all in the same grade at school.
This was a large part of why I had to struggle so much to fit in. Randy never
took well to being less than best or second best, seeing as how he was the main
contender for Zach athletically, and Chris, well he just went along with whoever
was going to be the bruiser so he wouldn’t be picked on. Randy was no natural
at skateboarding, and Zach and I had a couple months worth of experience more
than Randy to boot. This definitely caused some harbored resentment when the
kid picked last for basketball could skate better than him. Now Chris was about
as big as Randy, and even though he wasn’t athletic, for some reason he fit in.
Damien rode around making fun of everyone who didn’t land their tricks, but one
thing I always noticed was that he never made any jabs at Zach.
Eventually
we all got frustrated and it was time for another break. The timing was perfect.
My little brother shouted my name over the fence telling me dinner was ready
and that I needed to head home. I said goodbye to them and let them know I
would come back after I ate. With skateboard in hand, I ran through the gate
towards my house. My family always had dinner together in the dining room, so I
sat down and began to eat, but the only thing I could think about was going next
door. I finished my dinner as fast as I could and asked to be excused. Once I
got permission and cleared my plate and glass I ran out the door, grabbing my
skateboard on the way.
There was so much noise coming from
the side yard that I could tell they were still back there, so instead of
knocking on the front door I just went through the gate. They were sitting around
and talking; I was a little upset to find that Cheryl had bought them a pizza
and I hadn’t been offered to stay. It was obvious from the empty box on the
ground next to the basketball hoop. It was minor things like that which
indicated I was never going to fit in, no matter how much I wanted to. Exhausted from the day, I sat on my skateboard
as they worked on more tricks. I wanted to be there to spend time with them. I
sat with my back leaning against the shed and I surveyed the yard. Zach had
just gotten some new furniture in his room because he was going into middle
school and his parents figured he no longer needed to have a little boy’s room.
An Ikea had opened up near our home not long ago and the remnants of his
furniture boxes were scattered in the side yard. You could see the foam like
paper that covered the pieces of wood as well as the white plastic string that
often tied the pieces together in the boxes so they didn’t shift around. The
cardboard boxes were neatly stacked along the fence, but his old furniture had
been added to the skate park. His old night stand propped up a piece of plywood
that we used as a ramp—a ramp that we never jumped off. In fact, most of the things
we had back there were probably not very safe. Especially since none of us wore
helmets—helmets just weren’t cool. We couldn’t afford to not look cool, and I
couldn’t afford to wear my helmet and not fit in.
Before I knew it the sky was growing
dark; it had to be seven or so, the street light was on and its rusty tinted
orange glare was becoming noticeable on the cement. The number of people
skating had tapered off, so it was the four of us watching Zach amaze us with
his skill. I was always in awe of him; I liked to think of him as my rival,
when in reality he was far above me in any physical activity. During the summer
when he could only hang out with me we would always play basketball or video
games. I always would try as hard as I could, and in certain games I could hold
my ground, but in the end it all came down to that one rule. Zach always wins.
He never cheated either; he was so good he never had to cheat.
This is the part of the story where
things get foggy. I know what happened; I just am not able to recollect who did
what specifically. Zach got tired of skating and we all took a break. When we
were about to finish for the night and head out to the front yard, someone
stopped and had a great idea. I don’t remember why it happened, but part of me
believes that it was premeditated while I was at dinner with my family. One of
them told me to stand by the basketball pole that was cemented in the ground. I
had my suspicion at first but they were able to convince me—after all I had to
fit in. I walked over to the pole and turned out, looking at the court,
confused.
I
looked at them and said, “What?” Before I knew what to do, one of them was
behind me with the plastic string and began wrapping it around me. One of the
boys held me in place and two others begin passing the string around the pole
and myself. My first instinct was to get away, to struggle, to fight, and so I
did. I tried to kick and move my arms—the problem was, they got my arms first.
This string was terrible, it hurt so badly on the skin, every movement I made
burned and tore my skin. And with that pain, the fear in me grew even more. I
was yelling and tears had swollen my eyes. I didn’t understand why this was
happening to me, but I never thought to ask them why. I could not figure out
what I had done to deserve this, and I doubt they knew themselves; they were
just doing it.
My incessant need to be part of their
group had been stripped away. They had alienated me and this was the beginning
of my persecution, a persecution I felt was entirely unmerited. As the boy who
was constantly bullied, I had seen my fair share of cruel acts from other kids,
but I never could figure out why. They tease, taunt, and torment the outcasts,
like animals picking off the weak or wounded. I never thought I was weak. I could
keep up with them at most things; I could stand my ground to fight. Only this
time, I could do nothing. I could only hope that my friends would come to their
senses and this silly prank would be over.
After a couple minutes, they had me tied
so I could barely move at all. At first one of them had to stay behind me and
keep the string pulled tight, but eventually they figured out how to tie it
down so it would stay. And there I was stiff as a board, tied and stuck to the
basketball pole with five boys who I’d thought were my friends, staring at me.
I guess then they realized the fun couldn’t end there, they had to do something
more. So they got out the wiffle ball bat. Not the normal long skinny yellow
one, but the big barreled orange hollow one. It always made a wonderfully loud
boom like the blast of a cannon every time the ball struck the bat, sending the
ball halfway down the court with an easy swing. It was hollow and soft, and to
be honest it didn’t really hurt. The only pain I felt were the burns from the
string securing me. What really hurt the most was the fact that they took
turns. They passed the bat off to one another, taking swings at me; I don’t
remember if they were laughing or enjoying it; I don’t remember if they were
angry with me; I don’t remember what their reactions were at all. I just
remember that when it was Chris’s turn, he was the first to strike a blow to my
head.
This was the point where it was all lost; he
hit me straight in the face which caused my head to slam back into the pole. So
now the bat had caused pain, and now the tears in my eyes did not matter. I was
angry, I was very angry. I yelled and screamed and cursed at them as much as I
could. I had given up on silently struggling from my bonds; I wanted to lash
out; I wanted to hurt them back. I don’t remember how much longer it lasted or
if it even lasted at all after that. I was so angry it did not matter, but
eventually they stopped and they went out into the front yard. The problem was
they left me; I stood there tied up against the basketball pole as it grew
dark. Again I began to cry and I struggled with the string trying to get loose.
After awhile I was able to get an arm free and blood was dripping all down my
wrist, and I could hear them talking out on the front driveway, yet they didn’t
come for me; nobody came for me. It felt like I was back there alone for hours
in the dark. After several minutes of painful struggle I gave up, and I
slouched as much as the bonds would let me, and I just sat—or rather hung there.
I hung there and stared into the darkness listening and feeling my heartbeats
and the throbbing of the cuts and burns on my skin that cascaded down my arms
and legs. I could feel the string dig deeper into the cuts slicing its way
across my flesh. I had thought they were my friends, I had thought I was a part
of the group, that I was accepted. Fitting in was all I had cared about,
instead I was tied to a pole, alone and in the dark. I just stared and sat and
cried until one of them came back.
Chris opened the gate and stood in the
side yard light with a look of sorrow etched in his face, but I did not care. I
wanted out, I wanted to be let go. I was nothing more than a tormented and
caged animal. He came up to me and began helping me untie my bonds. At first he
did so in silence, and then I heard the words “Don’t be such a baby,” and the
calm was gone, I was mad again and as soon as I was free, I headed straight for
that big brilliant orange bat. Now it was my turn, now I had the opportunity to
get back. It was time to make them understand. Chris started yelling as soon as
I came towards him. I hit him a couple of times as hard as I could in violent
rage before the others joined us. As soon as they started yelling at me, I
turned towards them and began to attack. They did not gang up on me and take
the bat away; they cowered and took the blows. They began yelling at me and
calling me names. Then I came to realize, that even though I was just trying to
get even, I still ended up being the villain. They all looked at me as though I
was the person in the wrong. They all considered me the freak; I was the one
who had stepped out of line, I was the one who needed to calm down. I looked at
their faces and I could see disgust and fear, and so what did I do? I ran, I
ran as fast as I could with the bat in my hand to my house. I ran up the
driveway and into the darkness of the garage. I stopped in the darkness and
threw the bat down and then collapsed. I fell into myself and cried in a ball,
I cried and cried in the darkness until I grew cold. Nobody looked for me, and
nobody apologized to anyone, that day happened and was then forgotten. None of
us ever mentioned it again.
