An old project for an English class, this is shortly after I first got interested in writing/journalism, so this is one of the earliest accounts of me dedicating myself to my writing for a reason besides fun/interest/etc.
Assignment: a descriptive essay in 30 minutes, as much detail as possible
I posted it on FB forever ago, and I think I described my project choice quite well: "This isn't about any legitimate moment in dodgeball, consider it a compilation of several memories of FTC's hal
Th-thump, th-thump, thump, thump, smack!, thump… No, that's not my heartbeat. That's the sound of thick foam-rubber dodge balls crashing into the slightly thicker foam-rubber wall behind me. The smack was caused by a black ball, slightly smaller than the others and made of a light plastic packed so full of air it is just waiting to fly out of someone's arms and into an enemy's face.
Mission accomplished. The aptly named "cannonball" collides with the exposed arm of one of my comrades. Another good soldier we can't afford to lose.
My army is dwindling, and though I may not be captain tonight, my reputation on this battlefield is one of fear and respect. With my squad's leader down and out long ago, the two remaining mates of my original 12 are looking to me, "The Scorpion" to lead them to victory.
I'm dressed in the same war-garb I wear every week: Black-and-white shoes, a pair of black-and-white athletic shorts hanging just below my knee, occasionally leaving my navy-blue glowing-pineapple boxer shorts exposed. The rest of my attire is stained the one color that could instill fear in the hearts of any man: bright pink. My socks are pink. My shirt is pink and bears a picture of a glittering baby blue Japanese dragon. A pink headband with a breast-cancer awareness ribbon is keeping my dark, furious mane at bay. Indeed my hair, or "The Creature," has fully sprung to life at this point. A thick, sweaty and curly mass that no product would keep under control is now held back only by the band.
A ball rolls my way… It's the red ball. No one in their right mind would throw the red ball. It's big. It's clumsy. It's an instant-catch. I roll it back toward my six opponents with a scoff. It's a long road across the slick, hardwood floor of our Normandy Beach, but with all this commotion its journey will go all but unrecognized. To my right another member of my three goes down in a hail of gunfire, removing one of our opponents in the process.
My brother in arms tosses me a loose ball he's just acquired. It's the green ball, recently purchased, still soft and springy. This ball would please any player, but it doesn't please me. I roll it toward the other team, much to my comrade's dismay. He's disappointed that I haven't ruined an enemy's face, but it's not about force anymore. It's a mental game now. My enemy's focus is on him, not on me. And in due time he takes the brunt of an enemy attack. They have no choice but to aim for me now. This is the hour of the Scorpion.
There are four of them and only one of me, but we're locked in a stalemate, a waiting game. Who will make the first move? I have one ball now, the blue one, locked into my left arm mainly for protection. They have all the rest. WHIFF! One of my opponents has gotten cocky. The orange ball is sailing right past me. I nab it after it smacks the wall and with an "Ung!" and an "Rrmph!" let both balls fly. The first smacks the ground a few feet in front of him. This is what we'll call a spoiler, an ill-placed shot that serves mainly as a distraction. The second connects with his legs, nearly tripping him. Success!
(Time's up! Did the scorpion succeed in eliminating his opponents? Or did he fall in a barrage of foam-rubber like so many before him?)