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Love hurts, and so does dodgeball

Our photo subject was a refurbished gymnasium, and I suggested it might make things a little more interesting if the elementary class played dodgeball.
‘We don’t allow dodgeball. It’s too violent.’
‘What about Red Rover?’ I said.
‘We try to discourage activities that involve physical contact.’
‘But it’s PHYSICAL education,’ I protested.
There should be an Indiana state education standard for dodgeball. It teaches kids valuable lessons, like aim for center mass, any move can be your last, and the tables can turn in a fraction of a second.
If I had played more dodgeball, maybe dating would make more sense, or at least I would be better prepared for the chaos.
And now, other than my own mistakes, what is there left for me to learn from?
I picked up a Louisville dating column, and the first thing I noticed was the author’s photo. He reminded me of one of the guys we used to gang up on in dodgeball. And his glasses reminded me of the kind we used to break.
He began to describe a romantic event he was attending. It was so romantic, in fact, that he longed for a female companion to share it with. It was a dating column that contained no actual dating. Clearly this guy wasn’t paying attention during dodgeball.
I picked up another Louisville dating column, this one by a female. She reminded me of one of the girls we used to gang up on in dodgeball. I skipped the article and went straight to the racy advertisements.
I returned to memories of school sanctioned violence in search of enlightenment.
Charlie Phillips once brought two pairs of boxing gloves before our awestruck eighth grade gym class. Though a racial and follicle opposite to Don King, he became our promoter.
No boxing between friends, he said. If we couldn’t find a mortal enemy, one would be appointed to us.
Finesse was getting me nowhere. An alternate strategy ‘ allowing my 100-pound adversary to wear himself out by vigorously beating me about the face and eyes ‘ also failed.
I remembered the Powell Doctrine, which states: ‘Never enter battle without decisive force and clear objectives.’
Abandoning the jab, I began baseball pitching my right fist at the head of my nemesis as hard as I could. Three strikes and he was out. I rung his bell so hard, people were showing up for Sunday Mass.
So much for strategy.
I once tried Ali’s Rope-A-Dope on a romantic interest, but she was smarter than me. Also, Rope-A-Dope doesn’t work if the punches are actually landing.
Lacking decisive force and a clear objective, my counterpunch crumbled when I spouted something about envying her cat for its place in her affections. More specifically I said, ‘I want to be your cat.’
She said I reminded her of the guys she used to pummel in dodgeball. She said she couldn’t date a guy like that, nor could she respect his work.
Charlie Phillips waved his hand in the air and shouted ‘It’s all over.’

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