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Jazzlike-Elk306

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Post by Jazzlike-Elk306 » Sat Dec 25, 2021 9:53 pm

The good, the bad, the ugly. Thank you in advance for your help.

Two fifty-five-gallon cylindrical plastic drums full of sand are placed roughly forty yards away from each other on a grass field; these are the goals. The objective is for each team to try and throw the ball, a size one miniature soccer ball, and hit the opposing team’s goal, thereby scoring a point. Once you catch the ball or pick it up off the ground, you can advance it until you are touched by a member of the opposing team, after which you must stop and pass the ball to a teammate or shoot at the opposing team’s goal. When the ball hits the ground, be it after an errant pass, unsuccessful shot attempt, or goal, the other team takes possession. The first team to twenty-one points wins, and you must win by two.

Fourteen players take the field, seven on each team, most of whom are barefoot. Each squad heads to its respective goal to strategize before the start of the game. Everyone picks a competitor to guard when on defense, and each team selects one player to stay back and play goalie in the event of a fast break by the other team. The game involves a lot of running, so like a flock of geese, each team rotates its most exhausted member to the goalie position throughout the game. When the players are ready, the match begins when one team throws the ball to the other.

The ball lands in my vicinity, and I catch it off its first bounce and begin running up the middle of the field. My teammates flank me on both sides. The opposing team tears towards us, and my defender fast approaches. When he is ten yards out, I slow down slightly as I look to my right and give a pump-fake with my left arm before cutting sharply to the left. The move works, and I am running unabated towards the opposing team’s goal with my defender in hot pursuit.

As I approach within fifteen yards of the goal, I throttle down and survey the field of play: everyone is circling the goal like bees around a hive. A teammate on my right side suddenly cuts towards the goal. I pass him the ball in stride. His defender quickly tags him seven yards away from the goal; he stops in his place. My teammate with the ball passes to another teammate. His defender immediately stops him three yards out from our target. Besides the rule that defenders cannot knock the ball out of their opponent’s hands, just about everything is fair game, and things get physical. Amidst the swarm and tussle, I cut towards the goal one-hundred and eighty degrees opposite my teammate with the ball. He sees my move and lobs the ball over the goal and its protectors. I catch the ball in midair and slam it down alley-oop style to score the point, relishing briefly the sweet low-pitched sound produced in the process.

Handball is a sport my neighborhood friends and I created when I was in the eighth grade. At first, the participants were predominantly the creators. But by my freshman year in high school, we were playing almost every weekend for hours at a time, no matter the weather.

That spring, our number of participants was so high that we decided to organize a competitive handball league for the summer break, complete with six teams of six players each. Despite being the youngest of the group, I led a selection of team captains, an NFL-style combine for the participants, and a draft of the teams. As the principal organizer of the league, I was thrilled for it to begin. But to my disappointment, I had to go on a mission trip during the week of the first games.

“You’re going to get shot!” I laughed after hearing a young boy of not more than ten utter these words as my group first arrived on the streets of southside Chicago. “Yeah right,” I thought, “he is just joking”. But that night, as I heard gunshots ringing out through the Englewood air, I was taken aback. My friends would be running up and down a field the next day, fearing only the loss of the game. Outside the church where I was sleeping, people were trying to murder each other.

Studying and practicing law represents to me an opportunity to combat the systemic injustices that led a young boy to fear for his and my life that day in Englewood.

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