In response to FM’s article decrying the sport of Spikeball as a “bad trend,” The Crimson recently received a package in the mail. Attached to the box was a note that simply read “Thank You.” While the writers at FM abide by a strict no-bribes policy, thank you gifts are always appreciated (hint hint). And so, our consciences unburdened, we tore open the packaging and set up the contents—our very own spikeball kit.
The first few games are uneventful; rules are learned and mistakes made. But soon things start to change. I leave to take a phone call and return to find the net illuminated by an heavenly glow. The teams play on, the players and audience unaffected by my shouts of “What the hell?!”
I quickly notice the change in the players. The lunges and odd angles have disappeared. Instead, they crouch with outstretched palms and twirl their arms with the grace of martial artists. Their feet seem hardly to touch the ground, floating on ethereal winds. Whirling and leaping, they spin around the hoop; the ball ricocheting back and forth in one impossibly long volley. All the while a chant arises from the onlookers, growing in intensity with each second: “SPIKE-BALL! SPIKE-BALL! SPIKE-BALL!”
With a mighty smash, the volley is over and the game is won. High fives and celebrations are cut short by a blinding flash from the Spikeball set. When my vision clears I discover the victors have been transformed: one stands agape in a puddle of fat that has miraculously melted off his frame, marveling at his new, god-like bod. The other has begun to literally ooze sex appeal (the substance is iridescent and smells like wood shavings, in case you were wondering). The crowd rubs the blindness from their eyes, not knowing what to make of the awesome scene before them. A voice in the back of the crowd whispers in the silence: “Best. Game. Ever.”
