The Stupendous Dodgeball Fiasco

by Janice Repka

  A girl with asthma was the first to go down, felled by a boy with straight aim and a crooked nose. Others started getting picked off. With four balls in play, some of the kids were getting hit by more than one ball at once. The smell of dirty socks was quickly overpowered by the stench of drenched underarms.

  B.B. and a tall, skinny kid, both armed with balls, squared off in a showdown. Phillip recognized the kid. His mom worked at the dodgeball factory. Why was he going after B.B.?

  “Hey, rat,” the big kid said. “Here’s a piece of cheese for you.” He flung the dodgeball like a grenade. B.B. deflected it with the ball in her hands. Then she slammed her ball straight at the kid, tripping his right leg.

  “You’re out,” Coach yelled.

  Two more kids whose parents worked at the factory raced over to get a piece of B.B. She dodged the first ball with ease. The second nearly got her.

  “Bring it on!” she shouted to the other team. And they did. One against one. Two against one. Three against one. Each time, she dodged their rounds and returned their fire. It only provided them more ammunition. Finally, it was four against one.

  They stood barely behind their line: a twelve-year-old with a chip on his shoulder and a long scar across his chin; his human-tank friend; a girl with thick arm muscles and stringy hair; and the boy with the crooked nose. They teasingly tossed their balls in the air, knowing they had her. Not even B.B. Tyson could handle a four-ball assault. She was tired, weakened. She needed to rest. B.B. turned to retreat but bumped into a kid hiding behind her. They crashed to the ground. The kid crawled backward in a crab walk. B.B. turned and looked across the line, chin up, chest out, waiting to feel the first strike.

  “Wait!” Phillip yelled. He couldn’t bear to see B.B. get pummeled. He had to do something.

  “Stop the game!” He raced down the bleachers and over to Coach. A shrill whistle froze the dodgeballers in place and gave B.B. a temporary reprieve.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Coach asked.

  Phillip ripped the bandage from his finger. “It’s not hurt,” he said. “It was a lie.”

  “You’re the strangest kid I’ve ever met,” said Coach.

  “Am I in the game?” Phillip asked.

  “You’re in,” he said.

  B.B. was still draped like a rug on the floor, with the four gorillas ready to beat her. Phillip raced over

  “Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded, but the look in her eyes said they were still in trouble. She got up and stood next to Phillip.

  Coach’s whistle revived the action.

  “Isn’t that cute,” the girl with thick arm muscles teased. “B.B.’s got a boyfriend. Bye-bye, boyfriend.”

  She pitched the ball hard at Phillip’s head. He jumped up and caught it. Immediately, the crooked-nosed boy lobbed another ball at him. It headed straight for Phillip’s stomach.

  He threw the first ball up in the air and caught the second ball. When the first ball began to come back down, he instinctively started juggling the two balls. He kept them high in the air like he had been taught. A trickle of sweat ran down Phillip’s forehead as he concentrated.

  “Look out,” screamed B.B. as she dove in front of him and caught the third ball, fired by the human tank.

  “Thanks,” said Phillip, still juggling. “Toss it here.” She tossed the third ball at him, and it was swallowed into the juggling mass.

  Chip-and-scar boy held the fourth ball. He slammed it toward B.B.’s torso while she was watching Phillip. She turned to grab it as it was about to pelt her in the stomach. The force of the ball knocked her back, and she stumbled before getting her footing. She hoisted the fourth ball triumphantly in the air. Her teammates began cheering wildly.

  Wrrrrrrrrrrrr! Coach’s whistle pierced the air.

  “That’s enough of that juggling nonsense,” he said. “Get those balls back into play.”

  “There’s no rule against juggling,” said Shawn.

  “That’s right,” another kid agreed. “You go, Cool-slaw.”

  Coach blew his whistle, but Phillip did not stop. Coach’s face began to turn grayish-blue. Still, the whistle could not be heard above the cheers.

  After Phillip got more height on the dodgeballs, he motioned for B.B. to toss in the last one. She glanced at her father’s angry face, then back at Phillip. She tossed the ball to Phillip and grinned. He didn’t stop juggling until the bell rang.

  During his walk to the courthouse after school, Phillip kept replaying the scene in his mind. He had died and gone to dodgeball heaven. That was the only explanation for what had occurred. When he got to the courthouse, Aunt Veola told him that his new glasses were ready and that they would be picking them up that night. Phillip went straight to the snack bar to tell Sam all that had happened.

  “B.B.’s really changed. I don’t think she’s going to bully me again, and I don’t want to sue her anymore. Suing the dodgeball factory and the school is enough. I want to drop B.B. from the lawsuit.”

  Sam didn’t agree.

  “It’s not that simple,” he said.

  “Why not?” Phillip asked. “Why can’t I drop B.B. from the lawsuit?”

  “If you drop the assault charge against B.B. now, another bully will figure he can hit another kid and not have to worry. If you let one bully get away with something, you’re letting all bullies get away with it.”

  Phillip could see his mother inside the gymnasium on the day of the Regional High School Championship game, her hedgehog-colored cheerleading ribbons drooping in limp ponytails. He pictured her trying to block out the shouts and jeers of the accusing crowd, and then fleeing in defeat.

  Sam was right. The lawsuit wasn’t only about him and B.B. It was about kids everywhere standing up for themselves. He had to keep going, even against B.B.

  “I understand,” said Phillip.

  “I’m glad,” said Sam. “Because our hearing is set for Monday morning.”

  Phillip dropped his root beer. The foaming brew splashed across the table and dripped onto the floor. Because they had asked the court for an injunction, the judge wanted to hear the case right away. Sam explained a bunch of other legal stuff, too. As Phillip grabbed napkins and mopped up the mess, all he could think was that the hearing would be here in no time.

  If he lost the case in court, the dodgeball bullies would be waiting for him and his friends. All his hard work would have been for nothing. The kids on the bleachers, Sam, Aunt Veola, Uncle Felix—even, somehow, his mom—he would let them all down. He would be a loser—the official laughingstock of the Unofficial Dodgeball Capital of the World.

  Pink lemonade was created accidentally by a circus vendor who used a bucket of water that another performer had washed her red tights in. Whenever someone is being careless because they’re rushing, circus performers say they’re “making pink lemonade.”

  The morning of his hearing Phillip did not want to make pink lemonade. He took his time getting ready, loading his briefcase with legal books and papers. It was really a suitcase from the attic that looked like a briefcase but was bigger. Phillip couldn’t understand why lawyers paid extra to buy smaller bags.

  He wore black pants and a white button-down shirt. A too-long necktie, which he had borrowed from Uncle Felix, was knotted clumsily around his thin neck. Since he didn’t own any dress shoes, he wore sneakers.

  Phillip took so long getting ready, Aunt Veola left without him, and Uncle Felix had to drive him to the courthouse. Uncle Felix’s lime green Volkswagen beetle made a putt-putt sound as they chugged down the street. After the car passed the dodgeball factory, it began to sputter. In less than a block, the engine stalled.

  “There must be a leak in my gas tank,” Uncle Felix said. “Don’t worry, there’s a gas station ahead, and it’s downhill from here.”

  Oh no, thought Phillip. I can’t be late.

  Uncle Felix put the car in neutral. Phillip got out and pushed. He had to lean his shoulder into it to get the car rolling
while Uncle Felix steered it into Friendly’s Gas-’n-Go. A sign advertised the Special of the Month for November was a free dodgeball poster with each oil change.

  An old man and woman in matching dirty blue overalls shuffled over. Phillip had seen them before snuggling together on the bench outside of the shop, waiting for customers. The woman washed the windshield. The old man reached for the gas nozzle

  “Hey, Felix,” the old man said. “Coasting again, huh?” He flipped a switch and the meter on the pump began to run. The gas fumes made Phillip’s nose tingle like he was going to sneeze. He hopped back into the passenger seat.

  “You want I should fill out a credit-card slip?” asked the old man. “Or you paying cash?”

  Uncle Felix squeezed forward and reached for his back pocket. “I must have left my wallet in my other pants.”

  “Again?” the old man asked.

  Phillip reached into the glove box and grabbed a white handkerchief. He unfolded it and gave Uncle Felix a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

  “Where did this come from?” Uncle Felix asked.

  “Aunt Veola hid it there just in case, because you’re always forgetting to put gas in the car,” Phillip said. “Now, can we hurry? I’ve got to get to court.”

  “Don’t forget,” yelled the old man as they putt-putted away, “next month we give out a free ticket for the Annual Dodgeball World Series and Barbecue with every tune-up.”

  Uncle Felix was already late for his new job at the airport, so he dropped off Phillip at the front steps of the courthouse. Phillip was strangely relieved they had run out of gas. After that, what else could go wrong?

  Inside the courthouse, he got in line for the metal detector. This time, it felt different.

  “Good morning, Phillip,” Aunt Veola said.

  “Hello, Aunt Veola,” Phillip replied. He placed his lucky marble and a paper-clip chain into the plastic change box.

  “You’ll have to go through this time,” she said, “since you’ll be going into a courtroom.”

  Phillip dropped his briefcase onto the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector. It did not make a sound.

  “You’re supposed to meet Sam in courtroom number two,” she told him. “I’ll be up to watch when this rush is over.”

  Past the security area, Phillip noticed that the courthouse lobby looked especially crowded.

  “Excuse me, pardon me,” he said, trying to get through.

  “Hey, Phillip, over here,” he heard a familiar voice yell. It was Shawn O’Malley. “Wait up,” Shawn said. There was a man with him. The man wore a tweed sports jacket and held an electronic device. Close up, Phillip could see it was a tape recorder.

  “Phillip,” Shawn said, a little out of breath. “This is my grandfather’s dentist’s brother. He’s a reporter for the Hardingtown Star Tribune. I told him you’d give him an interview.”

  “What?” asked Phillip. “Why would you want to interview me?”

  “Don’t be modest. You and your lawsuit are big news today,” the reporter said. He flipped the switch to his tape recorder. “Let’s start with background questions.” He pushed the microphone in front of Phillip’s face. “Is it true that you were born in a circus tent?”

  “Excuse me,” Phillip said. He grabbed Shawn by the arm and tugged him away so they could talk privately.

  “What are you doing here?” Phillip asked Shawn.

  “Everybody’s here,” Shawn said. “Practically the whole sixth grade. When Mr. Race heard your case was going to trial, he declared it a school field trip. Said it would teach us kids a lesson. He thinks you’re gonna lose. But me and some of the other kids, we think you got a chance.”

  “Are you Phillip Stanislaw?” an attractive Hispanic woman asked. “He’s over here,” she shouted to a man with a television camera on his shoulder.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” said the newspaper reporter. “I saw him first.”

  While the television reporter and the newspaper reporter argued, Phillip fled to the old part of the courthouse and the freight elevator. He took the elevator to the second floor and didn’t stop moving until he was in courtroom number two.

  It was even more crowded inside the courtroom than the lobby. A vast assortment of people filled the spectator seating, packed together like a circus audience on Free Peanut Night. The last rows of seats were filled with sixth-graders, craning their necks to get a better view.

  There was a wooden railing that separated the courtroom proper, behind which were a table and chairs on the left and another set on the right. At the left table, Phillip saw a pair of men and a woman in dark suits. At the right table, he saw Sam and an empty chair, which he quickly filled. Sam pointed out the defendants’ lawyers: Mr. Dinkle, the boss attorney, and his assistants, Ms. Jones and Mr. Terry.

  Sam also told Phillip that because of the special relief they had sought, a judge instead of a jury would be deciding the case.

  “The good news,” said Sam, “is that the judge who’s been assigned to our case isn’t a dodgeball fan.”

  “That is good news,” agreed Phillip.

  “The bad news is that she coaches a recreational soccer team for senior citizens called ‘Golden Toes.’”

  “Why is that bad news?” asked Phillip.

  “It may make her identify more with the defendants and make her lean their way.”

  “Will she try to be fair?” asked Phillip.

  “I hope so,” said Sam.

  Phillip noticed a pitcher of water on his table and poured them both a tall glass. He also noticed a small trash can next to the table and moved it closer, just in case he had to throw up.

  “Hear ye, hear ye,” said the court tipstaff, the judge’s courtroom helper. “All rise for the Honorable Ida E. Monn.”

  Boffo, the three-legged circus poodle, lost his leg in a bicycle accident, and they said he would never ride again. The leg was buried behind the ticket tent. Each day, Boffo would dig holes around the tent trying to find his leg. Each evening, the circus moved to another town. Boffo never did find his leg, but his other legs became so strong from all that digging that he was able to start riding again. Whenever a situation seemed hopeless, Phillip’s mom would remind him about Boffo.

  Phillip was thinking about Boffo as Judge Monn entered the courtroom in a swirl of black robe. A judge is like a referee, Sam had explained. Her job is to make sure people play by the rules and don’t misbehave.

  Phillip thought Judge Monn’s black robe made her look more like the grim reaper than a referee. She had silver hair and a neutral expression. The judge surveyed her courtroom like it was a soccer field and tossed herself into her chair. Everyone sat.

  “Let’s get this hearing started,” said Judge Monn. “Are there any matters to be dealt with before we begin?”

  Mr. Dinkle rushed to a podium. Although his hair was also gray, his step seemed quite lively. Phillip wondered if Mr. Dinkle colored his hair to make himself look older.

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” Mr. Dinkle said. “The defense would like to present this Motion to Disqualify Opposing Counsel.” Phillip looked to Sam for a translation.

  “They want the judge to tell me I can’t be your lawyer,” Sam whispered to Phillip.

  “Can they do that?” Phillip asked. But Sam had already stood up. He buttoned the jacket of his tailor-made suit.

  “Stop dragging your feet,” Judge Monn said to Mr. Dinkle, “and tell me why.”

  “Conflict of interest,” said Mr. Dinkle. “Yesterday, we hired Mr. Phoenix’s son to work for our law firm. A lawyer shouldn’t try a case when a close relative works for the law firm on the other side.”

  “Of all the low-down tricks,” said Sam. “The only reason you hired him was so you could try to get me disqualified.”

  Sam and Mr. Dinkle began arguing. Phillip wished they would stick to the facts about how B.B. Tyson broke his glasses. What would he do if the judge wouldn’t let Sam try the case? Phillip remembered something he h
ad read in a law book. He needed to get Sam’s attention, but there were no salt and pepper shakers for their secret signal. Phillip picked up the the drinking glasses.

  “If Mr. Stanislaw cannot find replacement counsel,” said Mr. Dinkle, “he’ll have to withdraw his lawsuit.”

  Phillip banged the glasses together.

  Cling! Cling! Cling! Cling!

  “What is that annoying sound?” asked Judge Monn.

  “I believe,” said Sam, “my client is signaling that he wishes to speak.”

  Phillip stood up and cleared his voice so that his words wouldn’t sound too squeaky.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I would like to know if it would solve the problem if I had another lawyer.”

  “Well, of course,” said Judge Monn. “That’s the whole reason I’ve been hearing arguments. Do you have another lawyer?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Phillip. The courtroom was so quiet you could hear a feather drop. Phillip’s knees wobbled. He wasn’t sure that he could force out the words.

  “Don’t let the grass grow under your feet,” said Judge Monn. “Out with it. Who is this lawyer?”

  “Me, ma’am,” Phillip said, trying to sound certain. “I would like to represent myself.”

  A hum like the static from a broken speaker crept through the room. Judge Monn beat her gavel against her mahogany desk.

  “Objection!” the three dodgeball defense lawyers screamed in unison as they sprang from their seats.

  “He can’t practice law without a license,” Mr. Dinkle said.

  “You only need a license when you represent another person,” said Sam. “The Constitution of the United States ensures the right of a party to a lawsuit to represent himself.”

  The lawyers began bickering again. Phillip hit the glasses together until they stopped. Judge Monn uncovered her ears and ordered the tipstaff to remove the glasses from Phillip’s table.

  “Young man,” Judge Monn said to Phillip. “If you wish to address this court you will do so like the other attorneys. You will rise from your seat, say the word objection, and wait for this court to recognize you.”