So in any number of arcane contests I was set up to compete either against my physically superior peers or what they bitterly called my "personal best" to help save America from its flabby ways. I hung helplessly from ropes, stared blankly at parallel bars they couldn't make low enough for me to mount, and got called to run laps after class so the other girls wouldn't have to wait so long watching me finish. My sportier classmates, accustomed to down and dirty playground basketball and the anarchical stickball we played Down South in the summertime, paddled through the impossibly dull textbook badminton and volleyball wondering why they couldn't score physical fitness points with the President playing games they actually liked. Then there were the truly ridiculous events -- like the square scooters on four roller skate wheels that you sat on and raced across the floor (trying not to crush your fingers or anyone else's), and like dodge ball -- that could only have been included so that really lousy athletes would have something to do better at.
In dodge ball the very thing that made me a disaster at the other sports -- my fear of being hit by the ball -- worked to my advantage. Trying to escape the ball coming towards you in the infield is the wrong thing to do in baseball, but it's the object of the game in dodge ball. At last I could serve my country by skillfully hiding behind other players and avoiding the dreaded brown sphere. Then, suddenly, I was confronted by the consequences of playing well. Finding myself one of two girls left inside the circle, right on the brink of winning it all, was far more disturbing than triumphant.
I panicked. The shock of having done the right thing in a sport and the possibility of winning was more pressure than I could stand. I was sure, although I had shown the ability to dodge the ball up until that very moment, that I'd never be able to make the right move for the final play to win the game. In fact, I couldn't move at all. There was only one, last, mad (yes, quite completely mad) thing I could think of to do. I dropped down to the floor on my knees in fetal position and imagined that I could make myself so small that no one would be able to hit me. With my forehead on the tile I peeked out to see a girl look at the teacher with eyes that asked if she should actually go ahead and throw the ball at such a pathetic creature. I was wishing the teacher would consider speaking to someone about my mental health.
I've wondered ever since that day whether I could have won the game if I hadn't crumbled, if I hadn't tried to shrink unseen into the earth, if I had played through with the same maneuvers that had taken me almost to the top. What would have happened if I had stayed on my feet and met the competition head on?
Much has been said on the left about the Democrats' game of dodge ball since they triumphantly took over the Congress. Success not being their friend, we've seen their policy initiatives shrink and shrink, as though they believed the only way to move forward was to become so small (so moderate? so thrifty? so Republican?) that they could not be seen. The strategy didn't work for them any better than it did for me in seventh grade. They got hit by the ball because they didn't carry out the maneuvers that got them where they were.
But the lame duck session could be their "what would have happened if" moment, if they choose to make it so. The worst has already happened. The mid-term elections are over. The Democratic majority in the Congress has one more chance to decide whether to curl up or stand up.
While they're making up their minds, I'm going to go speak to someone about their mental health.
