Self-Inflicted Childhood Tortures, Revisited

Our vacation spot of choice this year was Blackburn's Resort on Lake Norfolk in Mountain Home, Arkansas. The "resort" part is a bit of a stretch; it was more like a campground with cabins instead of places for tents. It did have some nice amenities though: a clean swimming pool with adjoining hottub, playground for the kids, boat rentals, and sports/games like volleyball, shuffleboard, horseshoes and tetherball.

I stared at the tetherball court at the resort, waxing nostalgic. Ahhh, tetherball. I was the queen of this sport in middle school. I played it in as much of my spare time as possible and took first place in intramural tournaments, beating out such fearsome rivals as my best friend Bridgette and the Botello twins. This was no small feat, as i was pretty short back then (not that i'm a towering giant today) and these girls were at least a head taller than me.

My husband also claims to have ruled at tetherball when he was young, so naturally it was an unspoken pre-determination that we would clash on this court at some point during our stay. That day did come.

It was Tuesday, the day before the fish fry. He was messing around with the ball and i approached him. I didn't need to say a word; he served the ball. It was an epic struggle, with most of the rules completely disregarded. He sought to use his superior height to his advantage, but the pole was a bit shorter than tetherball poles usually are, and the advantage was lost. The ball was predictably half-inflated, which any tetherball veteran knows is a recipe for nasty bruises and knuckle-cuts. Three times my husband nearly bested me, and three times i untethered his ball, fighting for dominion and past reputation alike. As the battle wore on, my wounds weakened me quickly and soon i was no longer able to hit the ball without pain, and i was beaten. Wounded as i was, i could not challenge for a rematch.

As i walked away from the court, all the memories of the sliced, swollen and bruised knuckles and forearms came rushing back to me. Even back then, my pinky knuckles were permanently swollen up and purple; i used to be thankful that i didn't write with my left hand. How could i have forgotten that part?! Over the next few days, i would look at my battered arms and wonder what the hell i was thinking.