From there, the
freshly minted balls
are loaded on cargo
ships and trucked
across the U.S. to
land on the shelves
of Wal-Marts and
sporting-goods
stores everywhere.
Once it leaves the
hands of the
retailer, a ball
most certainly will
be used in a game.
But then
what?
There's a lot of
down time in the
life of a kickball.
And until recently,
kickball
researchers have not
known what goes on
when kickballs are
"at rest." The true
"life" of a kickball
has remained largely
a mystery.
What goes on in
their little red
minds? We
don't exactly know.
But we have
discovered this page
from the diary of a
kickball. It offers
a stark glimpse into
the life of a
kickball. But it is
just that -- a
glimpse, only a
glimpse. There is
much yet to learn
about kickballs. ...
Wednesday
7:12 a.m.:
This bag has become
a prison for me. It
has been nearly a
week since I have
seen sunlight. The
unbearable darkness
of this insidious
satchel is surpassed
only by the
agonizing apathy of
my bagmates: The
bases can carry on
only the most
shallow of
conversations. They
lack backbone and
are content to let
the other items in
the bag walk all
over them. The cones
do not socialize;
they tend to stick
together. Meanwhile,
I cannot tell if the
scoresheets are
friend or foe; they
are tough to read.
8:04 a.m.:
As I drifted in and
out of sleep,
stirring outside the
bag awakened me. All
signs now indicate
that our jailer has
transported our
soft-sided Nylon
Alcatraz to the
trunk of a late
model Oldsmobile.
Suspect that we are
bound for somewhere
upstate, where we
likely will meet our
end in a shallow
grave. O! I long to
return to China. (Or
is it Taiwan?)
8:52 a.m.:
Car has stopped. No
sign of our jailer.
This could be an
opportunity for
escape.
11:07 a.m.:
Jailer has not
returned. Other
bagmates refuse --
out of fear -- to
assist in escape. As
heat of day
intensifies, am
sensing smell of
strange rubber
wafting from across
this massive
Sing-Sing of a
satchel. Could there
be another ... no!
It's not possible.
Must keep wits about
me.
2:12 p.m.:
I have discovered
another kickball in
my cell! Yes --
another like me! How
could I have missed
it?! Boy! It's
getting hot in this
trunk. Feeling
bloated. Must escape
soon. Must!
3:55 p.m.:
Newly discovered
kickball ally and I
tried for more than
an hour to escape
the confines of our
heavily stitched
sack-cell and the
trunk of this
well-made American
automobile. Alas! We
have failed! Am
beginning to think
that our lack of
opposable thumbs (as
well as arms) is
becoming factor in
our attempts to
escape.
5:03 p.m.:
Other ball farted.
Blamed it on the
dog. Stinks to high
heaven! Am breaking
off alliance with
other kickball. I
hate the other
kickball! The
flatulent kickball
must die!
5:33 p.m.:
Discovered a
somewhat indignant
Chihuahua in the
satchel. Guess it
was the dog after
all. Have forgiven
the other kickball.
Reinstating our
alliance. Attempting
to recruit Chihuahua
as confederate. Poor
Spanish skills are
proving a barrier,
however.
6:00 p.m.:
Movement once again!
Certainly destined
for upstate this
time! Chihuahua
urinated on cones
and then attempted
to mount me. Is this
how it ends?!
6:20 p.m.:
Car stopped and we
were removed to an
area of much
activity. Lots of
voices. We clearly
are in some sort of
field. Suspicions
drifting toward
satanic ritual
involving maize and
children.
6:25 p.m.:
Was removed abruptly
from bag. Giant
obelisk in field
confirms suspicions
of pagan ritual.
Suspicions further
reinforced when
faceless jailer
inserted needle into
my rectum. Much
pain. Much pain. Am
hoping Chihuahua
gets same treatment.
6:30 p.m.:
Have heard that "R.
Captain" -- whoever
that is -- has not
shown up yet.
Relief? Remainder of
Satanic ritual
delayed? Postponed
indefinitely?
Praying to that
giant red orb of a
sun overhead that I
get out of this
predicament somehow.
Chihuahua has
vanished -- thank
God! And other
kickball from
satchel is nowhere
to be seen. Did he
make a break for it?
Am alone in my
struggle now.
6:31 p.m.:
The legged ones call
for something called
"practice." Dread
welling up inside
me.
6:32 p.m.:
R. Captain seems to
have shown up.
6:46 p.m.:
Someone just rolled
me briskly at a pair
of legs. I saw one
of the bases as I
passed by. The
bastard did nothing
to help. One of the
legged ones yelled
"ball." (Do they
fear me as they fear
a shark?) A bit
dizzy now.
Otherwise, came
through the ordeal
unscathed. ... Wait!
I sense another roll
coming on.
6:52 p.m.:
The unfeeling
Satanist rolled
(turned me over end
on end at a brisk
pace) me again.
LARGE individual
inserted his foot
into my stomach and
sent me soaring 200
yards. Could take no
more, finally let
out an "OW!" to now
avail.
6:59 p.m.:
Hope to stave off
further attacks with
newly found voice.
As the
sadomasochists once
again induce me to
vomit by rolling me
across the grass, I
yelled "don’t even
think of kicking me!
I mean it, stop it
you bastard!"
7:01 p.m.:
Torture unbearable.
... Must make escape
plan. ...
7:05 p.m.:
Success! After
several early plans,
including bouncing
and rolling away,
failed to break me
free of my
captivity, I have
found sanctuary in
the branches of a
tree. One of my
mindless captors is
below me, attempting
to reach me by
jumping and failing
miserably. Jump, dog
boy, Jump!
7:06 p.m.:
I remain safe in my
tree fort as another
captor approaches.
Apparently,
torturing me has
taken a toll on
those sadists as
well, as she seems
to be taking off her
shoe.
7:07 p.m.:
I am under attack!
Several captors are
launching a barrage
from below, and I am
holding on for dear
life as footwear
flies everywhere.
Fortunately, my
captors'
preoccupation with
kicking the innocent
has left many of
them with puny,
grossly
underdeveloped arms,
but there have been
several close calls.
7:09 p.m.:
The battle rages on.
In the distance,
several of the
captors have brought
out the other
kickball and are
apparently trying to
make an example of
him, by kicking and
tossing him about
unmercifully.
7:10 p.m.:
I'm hit! Falling ...
falling ...
8:15 p.m.:
The fall must have
knocked me
unconscious, as I am
back in the dark
prison. Undoubtedly,
my captors continued
to beat me
afterwards, as I'm
now covered with
bruises. The other
kickball is here
with me, and he is
either unconscious
or we are no longer
on speaking terms
because I didn't try
to take him with me.
8:25 p.m.:
It has been quiet
for some time now,
the savages must
have been satisfied
with the beating
they gave me and
have gone off to
celebrate their
oppressive regime.
You have won this
round, oh brutal
savages, but you
will not win the
war. My spirit will
not break. Someday I
will be free of this
place, free of the
cowardly bases and
collaborating cones,
and then I will have
my revenge!
8: 47 p.m.:
Another odd smell. I
think the chihuahua
is dead. ... Lucky
bastard.
