Every couple of months the YMCA in Phoenix holds an overnight function for it's youth/teen development program. A few staff members and volunteers bring screaming 10-13 year old boys and girls to the outside world (Strike 1) until about midnight (Strike 2). The children are then shipped back to the YMCA via 1928 steam-engine Ford Club Wagons where they are fed buckets of candy (Strike 3). The children are then locked in a room and told to go to sleep (Ha).

Yours truly volunteers at these functions regularly, and seeing as how I was in town, I decided to help with the function on Saturday night. I did this for two main reasons - (1) I can give back to the community just a little bit by making the lives of several children a little better, and (2) Free pizza. So we took the kids to the Great Skate, a fairly safe environment (In both of my YMCA outings to this establishment, we've only had a knife pulled on one of our kids once. No lie... isn't that great?) Once we get the kids back to the YMCA and in their room, we pretty much have the rest of the establishment to ourselves. So here's where the real story begins.

I figure I'm up for a little game of racquetball with Scott. Let me describe Scott in this way: If you tie three or four of him together in a bundle, I might have to exert SOME effort in order to break said bundle over my knee. However, I have YET to beat him in racquetball. Yeah, pisses me off too, believe thee me. But I digress.

So we begin. IMPORTANT LESSON WHEN PLAYING RACQUETBALL: When the ball goes behind you, DO NOT turn around to see where it goes. The last thing I remember seeing is Scott's ferocious swing followed by a rubber blue sphere of death smashing into my face at, say, oh, maybe about 150 miles per hour.

Now here's where my quasi-masculinity kicks in. Half of me wanted to get up, rip Scott's laughing mouth off, and break his face. The other half wanted to stay right there on the floor of the court and cry me to sleep. So what did I do? I took the middle road. I got up and finished the game with a throbbing nose and a watering eye. On one hand, one can't help but admire my endurance and spirit, but on the other hand, one can't help but scorn my obvious inablility to be a real man and kill.

Flash forward to 3 AM. The kids have long since been asleep, so we decide to move into the Kids' Gym where there are several high-jump style mats. We decide to line the mats up and wrestle. Jeremy and I have promised each other a wrestling match for a couple of weeks now. Let me describe Jeremy in this way: I am about one and a half times Jeremy's size, and I think he could probably break me over his knee almost as easily as I could break a bundle of Scotts. Several times I have jokingly demanded a wrestling match with Jeremy, saying, "Come on, you little bitch, I will throw you all over the room by your little girl ponytail." Now I had my opportunity, so when Jeremy not-so-jokingly approached me about the match, I said, "Shit." See, I did not refuse the match as a real wimp would have done, but I did not much cherish the idea of Jeremy ripping my face off either. Quasi-masculinity at work.

It is often said that without other people, one never really knows himself. I guess that's true. It took a racquetball to the face, about a dozen choke holds, and several carpet burns from other people to teach me just how almost-manly I can be. Somehow, though, there are times, like now for instance, when I would sacrifice all this pain just so I could continue thinking I'm the man.