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other evening, while sharing a beer with a housepainter friend,
the latter brought up the current assault on rigorous playground
sports, especially dodgeball.
The points he made were the obvious ones: The schools are turning
out generations of wimps and softies, to the point of tempting invasion
from the north. Furthermore, he added, it's not a good idea to keep
boys from experiencing the thrill of highly regulated assault. "No
wonder some of them go all-or-nothing and start shooting people."
Such analysis is pleasing, and perhaps even on target. It also brings
to mind earlier days when playgrounds were proving grounds, as well
as forums of the deeper type of learning. No longer, it seems. Published
reports, including a thorough assessment by Matt Labash in the current
Weekly Standard, indicate the traditional playground, like
the stag room, has been marked for extinction by the forces of enlightenment.
Instead of games rewarding physical gifts, we now have an "everyone
wins" regimen of games that require no talent, other than perhaps
the ability to stand erect and remain awake while doing so. There
is no mocking of losers, because everyone gets a trophy.
The result is supposed to be a more civilized, peaceful, harmonious
youth population. One reasonably expects a level of success to rival
that of in-school anti-smoking campaigns (that is to say, zero).
But the playground-pacification crusade does remind us that our
schools are increasingly run by hysterics who cannot watch a child
throw a ball at another child without thinking of Columbine, or
at least without calculating the amount of therapy some participants
will eventually need to transcend the trauma.
This is no exaggeration. Labash found an influential group of "dodgeball
scholars" (nice kick in teeth) who have created a full-scale indictment
of the game. These people produce movies with titles such as No
More Dodgeball: A New Beginning and articles entitled "Premeditated
Murder: Let's bump off killer ball." Those of us who are generally
under the impression that sedatives are too widely prescribed may
have to admit that some deserving hamlets have yet to be pacified.
We can also assume that these attitudes will only get worse, for
standing up to dodgeball clearly represents the progressive position,
while those who advocate the game find themselves in the same category
as ear-twisters, back-caners, and tongue-soapers.
There is no end to the list of crimes for which this latter group
is held accountable. Just the other day, the treachery of accused
spy Robert Hanssen was blamed on two causes: a love of porn, and
a "domineering father" who, among other things, yelled at the boy.
"[Hanssen's] reasons for spying had very little to do with spying
and much more to do with his emotional pain," explained the shrink.
"He is not mad, but he thinks he's going mad because of the contents
of his thoughts. He snaps, and the snapping is in the form of spying."
As of now, we don't know what role dodgeball played in this drama,
but will probably find out soon enough.
Meanwhile, one wonders how many Americans have been permanently
maimed by early exposure to dodgeball and assorted roughhousing.
The number must be astoundingly high, for on the playgrounds of
the 1950s and 60s (as well as those of earlier years) there was
a distinct Darwinian flavor to the proceedings. It was kick or be
kicked, smack or be smacked, and when you bled you'd better bleed
with a smile on your face or expect withering ridicule and maybe
a drubbing on the side.
Indeed, sometimes the toughest players were on the teaching staff.
I recall a fifth-grade teacher named Mrs. Bain (or perhaps it was
Miss Bane). She not only oversaw the school-safety patrol but rolled
the kickball with nearly enough power to pop a kicker's femur from
its socket. Should the ball bounce before the plate and shin you,
it was like being wailed by a barber's strap. Yet when there was
a solid connection with the foot, that ball sailed magnificently,
sometimes over the distant cyclone fence. The subsequent glow took
one's mind off the throb in his foot during the victory lap of bases.
After school there were other dangerous activities, such as daredevil
bike-riding (without helmets), fist-fighting, and the exchange of
new information on various aspects of the female anatomy. This was
before such information could be gained simply by turning on the
television, and instead required surveillance methods of some ingenuity
and skill, including one colleague's ability to climb a tree and
observe a neighborhood beauty at shower time.
God only knows what crimes are being perpetrated by those people
today.
As it happens, several are known to be living frightfully mundane
lives — working jobs, raising families, and never once cashing
a check for services rendered to the former Soviet Union. Many also
wonder how America came to be invaded by hysterics. Such questions
occasionally cross my mind, as when, last year, one of my sons was
severely punished for an act of nobility. The circumstances are
not in dispute. A friend was being preyed upon by a student three
years his senior. My son invited the older bully outside to settle
things. He complied. Yet after only two glancing blows, administrators
rushed in and not only ended the fight, but suspended the white
knight for five days.
One hates to pat a kid on the back for breaking rules and getting
tossed out of school for a week. But it was one hell of a temptation.
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