Dewey Disaster: When Kickball Turned into a Keys Catastrophe

photo credit Haley Johnston

On a beautiful spring morning following our final choir concert of the year, the air buzzed with a unique blend of accomplishment and youthful energy. The sun cast a warm golden glow over the schoolyard, where the crabapple blossoms were just beginning to bloom, creating a picturesque backdrop for an impromptu game of kickball. Feeling the contagious enthusiasm of the eighth-grade choir members, I decided to join them in the fun, trading my usual conductor’s baton for a bright red rubber ball. Laughter echoed as we set up cones for the match, the camaraderie from hours of rehearsing seamlessly flowing into moments of playful competition. The spring breeze carried away any lingering nerves from the performance, replacing them with pure joy as we decided to form teams of girls versus boys.

The girls unanimously chose me to pitch for them as we took the field. I had always prided myself on my precision and control, but nothing prepared me for the moment I effortlessly lobbed the bright red bouncy ball toward the cocky tenor who swaggered onto the field, clearly overestimating his skills. With a confident smirk, he attempted to kick the ball mid-air, but my perfectly arced toss caught him completely off guard, the ball bouncing right past his outstretched foot and landing safely in the catcher’s arms. The girls erupted in laughter and cheers, amazed at how something so simple as a high, gentle lob could humble someone so full of bravado. There were a few kicks during the first part of the inning, but when it was our turn to kick the game remained scoreless.

Playing in the crook of our L-shaped school, the building cast shade over the freshly mown grass of the infield, which remained damp with morning dew as our spirited game of kickball raged on beneath the bright sky. Every kick sent the ball rolling over the soft, glistening blades, while cheerful comments and laughter echoed across the field, intertwining with the rhythmic thud of our racing feet against the earth. The coolness of the shaded infield contrasted beautifully with the warmth of the sunlit outfield, creating a refreshing balance that kept our energy high and spirits even higher. It felt like time slowed down in that perfect moment—a celebration of youthful joy, friendship, and the simple thrill of playing together on a morning kissed by dew and happiness.

By the bottom of the final inning, the score was tied, and tensions ran high. The bases were loaded with two outs, and all eyes turned to me as I stepped up to the plate. One kick could change everything in an instant — a single, a walk, or even a grand slam could secure victory for my team. The sheer weight of the moment pressed down on me, every noise fading into the background except for the rhythmic pounding of my heart. In that electrifying moment, adrenaline surged through me, blending fear and excitement into a singular purpose: to bring my team home.

As a young teacher who considered herself quite athletic, I always embraced physical challenges with spirited confidence and zest. So, I stepped forward eagerly, ready to showcase my skills. My pulse quickened, and a mischievous smile spread across my face as I scanned the field, calculating the perfect angle and strength before launching the ball into the air. The adrenaline rush was invigorating, intensified by the cheers of the children, which ignited my competitive spirit as I sprinted full tilt toward first base.

Determined and focused, I pumped my arms with unwavering intensity, my eyes locked firmly on first base as if nothing could stop me from reaching it. The early morning dew had left the grass slick and sparkling under the rising sun, turning the field into a hidden obstacle course. In a heartbeat, my confident stride betrayed me – my shoes slipped on the dewy blades, and suddenly I was airborne, flying through the air in a blur of surprise and adrenaline. Time seemed to slow as I twisted mid-flight, realizing all too late that my landing wouldn’t be graceful. With a harsh thud, I slammed down, my body sprawling across the grass and, to my dismay, directly onto the cluster of keys tucked in my pocket. The pointed keys dug into my thigh, making me flinch as the sharp pain from the fall combined with the sudden impact of the key bundle, transforming an ordinary sprint into a striking—and hurtful—reminder of the importance of focus and balance.

While the boys lingered in the field, their laughter and jeers resonating through the crisp morning air, three girls triumphantly reached home base, their faces glowing with excitement and victory. Meanwhile, I lay on the ground, pain radiating through my body. Despite the burning embarrassment and the sharp stab in my side, my focus remained on making it to first base. My young choir members ceased their laughter long enough to help me up, and I shook my left leg to relieve some of the discomfort. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, I purposefully limped toward first base and declared myself safe, confident that no one had tagged me with the bouncy ball. A hush fell over the field as I crossed my arms and smiled with assurance.

When the realization dawned that the tie was broken and the girls had won, the game’s tension gave way to laughter and shared joy. The boys, previously loud and boastful, grudgingly accepted defeat, while the girls rallied around me with victorious cheers and good-natured teasing about my dramatic fall. In that instant, winning or losing felt irrelevant—it was the bond forged in choir that continued to bring us together on the field. United, we gathered the cones, collected the ball, and made our lively way back to the entrance of Davis Middle School. As the sun climbed higher, warming the dew-laden grass, we all knew this was a day we would cherish forever.