Angry and Sweaty
He walked on to the field like he knew everything there was to know about our game. It was his first time playing. We’d explained the rules, just like we do with everybody else. If you get hit in the arm or leg it’s no longer useable, two limbs gone and you’re dead. A hit to the chest or back is instant death. A projectile follows the same rules, with the addition of being allowed to aim for your head, also instant death.
But he was special. Without ever throwing a shot he knew he was the very best on the field and he was going to school us all.
He wore a black, armored, motorcycle shirt. His stringy hair hung limp in the 90 plus degree heat. He smirked at his friend as they lined up with everybody. They were clearly the best around. What did these weirdos in their medieval period clothing know anyway?
The herald called lay on and I pulled my arrow back. I grinned to myself, this was simply too perfect. I aimed and released the arrow. I watched as it flew almost perfectly across the field and landed squarely on his mouth. His eyes flashed with anger and he made to charge at me. The herald laughed a bit.
“Dude, you’re dead, shot to the face. Go sit down.”
He complied but I knew it was only a matter of time. Sure enough, two fights later he came charging around the field to come in behind me. I turned into his teammates so they’d kill me instead of him. He still made a wild leap, his sword swinging even as I called dead. It landed hard against my skull and I shook the stars from my eyes. I sat out for a few rounds, electing to take pictures while I calmed down.
“We’re good, right?” He seemed almost worried as he asked.
“It’s not me you have to worry about, it’s them.” I waved back at the rest of the group fighting.
The new guy hadn’t taken any hits, unless you swung nearly as hard as you could. That’s not the point of our game. Our game is honor. If I hit you, you take it. If you don’t take it then you’re not playing fair. I’m not down with hitting hard because I can’t generate that much force. I prefer to fight those who are honorable.
Later he sparred one on one with a few of the guys, including my husband. He would get hit, say ow, and attempt to keep using that limb or not take his death. So, he got hit harder. The only way to get them to stop hitting so hard is to take the hits and stop pretending to be invincible.
Normally I’d try to retain people, have them come back so we have more people to fight. I’m not sorry he hasn’t been back though. Some people just can’t be helped.
He left that day salty in more ways than one.
But he was special. Without ever throwing a shot he knew he was the very best on the field and he was going to school us all.
He wore a black, armored, motorcycle shirt. His stringy hair hung limp in the 90 plus degree heat. He smirked at his friend as they lined up with everybody. They were clearly the best around. What did these weirdos in their medieval period clothing know anyway?
The herald called lay on and I pulled my arrow back. I grinned to myself, this was simply too perfect. I aimed and released the arrow. I watched as it flew almost perfectly across the field and landed squarely on his mouth. His eyes flashed with anger and he made to charge at me. The herald laughed a bit.
“Dude, you’re dead, shot to the face. Go sit down.”
He complied but I knew it was only a matter of time. Sure enough, two fights later he came charging around the field to come in behind me. I turned into his teammates so they’d kill me instead of him. He still made a wild leap, his sword swinging even as I called dead. It landed hard against my skull and I shook the stars from my eyes. I sat out for a few rounds, electing to take pictures while I calmed down.
“We’re good, right?” He seemed almost worried as he asked.
“It’s not me you have to worry about, it’s them.” I waved back at the rest of the group fighting.
The new guy hadn’t taken any hits, unless you swung nearly as hard as you could. That’s not the point of our game. Our game is honor. If I hit you, you take it. If you don’t take it then you’re not playing fair. I’m not down with hitting hard because I can’t generate that much force. I prefer to fight those who are honorable.
Later he sparred one on one with a few of the guys, including my husband. He would get hit, say ow, and attempt to keep using that limb or not take his death. So, he got hit harder. The only way to get them to stop hitting so hard is to take the hits and stop pretending to be invincible.
Normally I’d try to retain people, have them come back so we have more people to fight. I’m not sorry he hasn’t been back though. Some people just can’t be helped.
He left that day salty in more ways than one.