Wall-Ball

“Ha! Skidder! Get out of here, bro!” The fourth grader had been King of the Court for five rounds now. Man, that guy must be the best Wall-Ball player in the school. After seeing his impressive Skidders, I was determined to learn them too.

Salmon Creek Elementary Wall-Ball was a simple game to the recess monitors, but for the boys, it was a game of glory, honor, and the vessel in which one’s place in the hierarchy of popularity was determined. Any boy who dared to rise through the ranks of their grade and beyond had to enter the fray.

As early as first grade, young warriors were thrust into the battlefield, forced to learn the ins and outs to tame the wall and claim their standing.

I remember my first time. Like many others, I was fooled by the simple rules of the game. Three other contestants stood beside me. The King of the Court hit the kickball; it bounced on the floor, and as it crashed into the wall, it shifted its momentum completely and thrusted itself back on the floor. As it bounced back up, Player 2 punched it back into the ground, and once again, it hit the wall and rebounded. Player 3 hit next, and I tensed in anticipation. The ball hit the wall and flew itself toward me; I backed up, let it bounce, and hit it—but my pathetic hit rendered the ball limp; it hit the ground twice before meeting the wall. I was out.

No worries, the line wasn’t that long. I patiently waited, until I claimed my spot as Player 4 once again. This time, I hit it as hard as I could; it went out of bounds. Rinse and repeat. Player 3 hit the ball in the jagged nook between the wall and ground; it flinging itself in a direction I didn’t predict, and I failed to hit it. Out. Player 2 hit the ball, but I was in the way of Player 3 getting the ball. Out. Player 3 lifted his arm in a grand motion, and I backed up in anticipation of a meteor-like shot— But then he suddenly shifted his body, hit the ball as light as a feather, and I couldn’t get to it in time. Out. This was a mutual experience among most first graders. Some would never enter the courts again, trading away their potential to rekindle their dignity. But still others, like me, learned to swallow our pride and learn the rules of this demanding arena.

In time, I learned to pocket the ball, to lob it, to fly it low, to hit slow, to hit fast—I only lacked two skills. One of which was skidding, where the ball is hit low with an immense amount of backspin, creating a shot that skids across the ground, resisting forward momentum until the wall would grant it rebound, and the ball, finally relieved, would dash back with incredible speeds. The other skill was a signature shot, which all elite players developed. A shot to forever enshrine your name in the court as future contestants try to replicate it. They had to be nearly impossible to hit; creating it would entail bending the rules of the game just shy of the snapping point.

I restlessly trained with my friends and fought tougher opponents, polishing my skills while striving to learn new ones. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t develop a skid or a signature. One day, while I was playing with Joseph, he showed me a new shot he had developed.

“Look, if you pocket the ball with too much force, it’ll go out. But instead of pocketing in a horizontal motion, you pocket it from above in a slamming motion: no matter how hard you hit it, it’ll bounce super high but won’t go out. I think this is my signature.”

Indeed, it was. Joseph’s shot became infamous for its misleading curvature, as it flew high into the skies it could no longer be tracked: the sun assailed the eyes of any onlookers.

After hearing his method, my motivation was rekindled as I realized something. I could combine two elements to make a signature shot, and if I used the skills I learned while trying to replicate Skidders, none of my efforts would be wasted.

Filled with newfound excitement, I got to work. While practicing Skidders, I’d mastered low shots. And while Skidders and low shots are hard to return, all of them had to be hit with substantial force to execute, so they traveled pretty far after hitting the wall (before meeting the ground), therefore everyone knew to back up. I decided I would create a high-speed low shot that would bounce immediately after wall contact. With the basic idea in mind, it surprisingly wasn’t too hard to create. I had to squat as low as possible before hitting, and hit the ball right before it hit the ground. The timing was difficult but doable. I also had to apply enough topspin to the ball for it to bounce on the ground as far as possible from the wall. This way, by the time it reached the wall, it would have less momentum and not go as far before hitting the ground once more. I mastered the timing of these two aspects; my signature shot was born.

One day, I entered as Player 4 with the Skidder-hitting fourth grader as Player 1. The match started. Ball served. Player 2 hit a short shot. Player 3 hit it long. I sprinted to the ball, claimed my footing, squatted, and swiped at the ball—my shot took reign of the wind and bounded forward, the fourth grader saw its speed and slid back in anticipation—but as the ball hit the ball, the wind ceased to whistle, and it fell straight to the ground. The fourth grader was nowhere near it. Out.

“He’s cheating!” He wailed.