Wall Ball.

Battle of the sexes.

Coming from a family of decent means and parents who worked nonstop, getting dropped off at a summer camp before being sent down to rural Georgia to live with my grandparents until school started was an annual occurrence. Getting dropped off at a co-ed summer camp, however, only happened three times throughout growing up. The first was referred to in Alphabet Soup. This is the second of those three times. 

By twelve years old, my military phase had begun. So when my father’s station wagon drove up to some pretty New England residential campus where peppy camp counselors stood ready to greet me, unlike the other girls my age everything I brought with me was packed in an olive green duffel bag slung over my shoulder and my Air Force t-shirt was neatly tucked into the one pair of cargo pants I’d convinced my mother to buy for me. 

I wordlessly let the cheery college student lead me to my dorm room and shook the hands of my parents as a farewell. 

“We do have a rule that you need to go the first three days without calling home,” the young woman told me. I was confused. 

“Do I need to call home for something?” I asked. She smiled.

“I’m sure you’ll want to after three days!” she insisted. Calling home hadn’t been on my mental camp agenda but I let it go. 

Despite my outward appearance, I had no issue getting along with my designated roommates. There were four of us altogether. I honestly can’t remember much about the day to day activities of this camp, if I was there for specific coursework, or what. Everything I remember centers around our recess time. 

Georgina had big curly brown hair that tumbled past her shoulders, but for recess in particular she would tame it with a giant scrunchie. Georgina had attended this camp for multiple summers and was eager to lead our roommate squad around.  

“This is our area,” she explained, leading us to a corner of the yard where some girls were jumping rope and others were creating art with sidewalk chalk. The big attraction was obviously the area surrounding the permanent four square lines. 

For those unfamiliar, four square is a common playground game in America. The “court” of four square consists simply of four squares: One big square divided into four equal parts. At this point, I can’t remember the specific rules but I’m fairly sure there were a few games you could play with this setup, all involving a bouncy ball roughly the size of a standard soccer ball. 

I was not a fan of four square. I’d tried it several times at school but found myself bored by it. Kickball was my specialty… until it got banned in my grade after an incident. By the time this camp came around, it had been a couple years since I’d bothered going anywhere near a four square setup. But I figured, “When in Rome…”

That was until I noticed what was going on at the other end of the large blacktop. Boys using the same balls we’d been using for four square were playing some kind of high-intensity game of what appeared to be a different version of wall ball than I was used to (at my school wall ball was played with a tennis ball). But pairs of boys were facing off against each other, sprinting around like one might do in a game of squash, and I was instantly drawn in.

“Only the boys play wall ball,” Georgina explained, face scrunched up. I argued that this didn’t make sense. We had the same equipment that the boys did. We could easily start a wall ball game on our own if we wanted to. But the girls did not want to. Because if they did, the boys would notice and that would invite ridicule. 

Suspiciously enough, Georgina knew all the rules of this particular version of wall ball, so I found a stretch of wall and a ball for myself trying to see how the boys reached such a level of precision and velocity with their hits. Like Georgina anticipated, this caught the attention of Joshua. 

What I remember most about Joshua was that each day he’d wear the same red baseball cap so filthy you could see the sweat and dirt build up and bleed through the crease of the lid by his forehead. Joshua informed me that wall ball is for boys and as the leader of the “four horsemen,” his wall ball gang, he was taking it upon himself to essentially put a stop to my foolishness. 

I explained to Joshua that I wanted no part of his wall ball games. I just figured that if I took the initiative to start playing wall ball by myself, other girls would join thus saving me from the banality of four square. He eventually trudged off. And as days went by, my plan worked. 

Girls' wall ball games quickly became somewhat common and the more we played together, the more our skills grew. Where I used to wake up on my own to jog up and down the dormitory stairwell before completing a satisfactory amount of jumping jacks, push-ups, and sit-ups each morning, a few other girls would join me on certain mornings just for the challenge. I was enjoying myself quite a bit. Then the tournament was announced. 

Apparently, a wall ball tournament of such formality wasn’t normal for this camp. But the boys this summer were more fired up than usual about it so they convinced the teachers to let them have one. I turned to the girls I’d been playing with all that time and urged them to sign up for the tournament with me. Some did and the teachers found it wonderful that more than just the boys were participating. But that’s when Joshua really started to get on my case. 

“You really think you can win?” he asked, bothering me one afternoon. 

“Maybe,” I said.

“You didn’t even know what wall ball was three weeks ago. You don’t stand a chance.”

The first day of competition brought back the nerves of my first tennis tournament but I willed myself to concentrate. I beat the boy I was up against with ease much to the glee of all the girls watching. The others who signed up with me didn’t make it past the first round or two but by the end of the week, I had made it to the final round. My opponent would be none other than Joshua. 

The night before the match, I requested to call home. I stood at the phone booth for several long minutes but ended up changing my mind. The next day, I felt my stomach churning with anxiety. The whole camp would be watching this game. Not even in tennis had I had so many eyes on me. Even just walking up to begin the match it’s like my hearing was muted. My hands were trembling. But I’m fairly sure my facial expression was as stoic as it ever was. I didn’t trust myself to speak. 

The nervousness admittedly got to me. I got off to a bad start. But the more I played, the more I forgot about the crowd. While I certainly didn’t like Joshua, he was very good at wall ball, much better than two of the other four horsemen I’d played earlier in the tournament. In the end, it was close. But it didn’t go my way. I didn’t have much time to be sad about it though because the reaction from the crowd was still very proud and supportive. I may have lost, but I had demonstrated far more skill than anyone ever expected. Even the camp counselors seemed invested in how this competitiveness had engulfed many of the campers. 

It’s probably the reaction from the crowd that had Joshua approach me shortly afterward, offering me a spot as the fifth horseman, stating that he assumed that had been my desire from day one.  

“I have no interest in joining your gang. Not at the start and not now,” I said but swallowed my pride and stretched out my hand. “Good game though.”

“Good game,” he said reluctantly before shuffling off not looking much like a victor at all.  

When I exited the dormitory for the final time, my parents patiently waiting by their car, the counselors all saluted me as I walked by. I saluted them back. My parents looked on in complete shock. 

“Looks like you whipped that place into order,” my mother said. 

I smiled and prepared to tell them my story.