Handball Hell

It was the spring of 1981, my freshman year in college. Back then you had to have three physical education credits. Physical education has never been my favorite thing, so I vowed to make it easy on myself. My first credit was bowling. I didn’t learn much, but I had fun.

My second PE credit was paddleball, which is similar to racquetball, but played with a paddle. Again, this wasn’t too difficult. I like racquetball, so I knew it couldn’t be too hard. I got to take it with a couple of friends, and the coach who taught it didn’t ask for much. With the schedule he set up, each person only had to play about once every other week. It was another easy “B.”

Then came my third credit. For this I chose handball. Picture racquetball without the racquet. How much harder could it be, I thought. Another easy “B.” I could even apply myself a little and maybe pull off an “A.” My friends and I chatted happily as we walked across campus to our first handball class.

That’s where the good times ended. We didn’t know what was waiting for us in that gymnasium: Coach Combs.

Coach Combs had a bad comb-over and an even worse attitude. In his prime, he might have been an athlete, but by then his playing days were long gone. Muscle had turned to fat, and he struggled to keep his pants pulled up over his stomach. Not once did he step onto the racquetball court. His teaching style was to pair two girls with two guys and send them onto the court to figure it out for themselves. He would watch with the rest of the class from the viewing area above.

Something about stepping onto that court turned every male in the class into brutal, take-no-prisoners, handball machines. It must have been testosterone, because it never affected the girls, just the guys. Their eyes would glaze over, and the battle would begin. Handballs would whiz by so fast, they would just be a blur. While the guys worked the court, diving for shots and bouncing off walls, the girls would cower in the corners, trying not to get hit. (Did I mention how it feels to get hit by a handball traveling at the speed of light? It hurts. A lot.) Coach would pass judgment from above, hurling insults and forcing the girls to get out of the corners and into the game.

When the game would end, we would drag ourselves up the stairs to join the class and Coach Combs. Our bodies would be soaked in sweat and stinging from the numerous hits we’d taken from the ball. But it wasn’t over. For me, the worst was yet to come. That’s when Coach would make the class run laps. Not walk. Not jog. Coach Combs wanted a full-out run all the way around the top level of the gymnasium. Sometimes it would be four laps, sometimes six, depending on his mood. My friends and I would always be at the rear, doing our best to keep up. Of course, Coach never ran with us.

Before the running began, Coach would single out one person to be the leader. No one could pass the leader, but everyone had to keep up with him. And wouldn’t you know it, the day came when Coach pointed at me and said, “You’re the leader!” Even though I hated running, I was too afraid of Coach to argue. So off I went.

The longer I ran, the harder it got. All I could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other. If I fall down, I wondered, since I’m the leader, will everyone else have to fall down too? Or will that give them permission to pass me and trample my body into the floor? Would my own friends, who were nowhere to be seen, leave their shoeprints on my backside, like everyone else? It’s funny the things that go through your mind when you’re almost certain you’re seconds from death.

Here’s where the hero enters the story. Bill Swint. I didn’t really know Bill Swint. He was just another student in the class. But unlike me, he was lean. He had a body made for running. The entire time we ran, Bill Swint never left my side.

Lap by lap, Bill literally willed me to keep going. Even over the sound of my own ragged breathing, I kept hearing Bill’s voice: “You can do it. Keep going. You can do it.” One lap at a time, with Bill beside me, I finished. After all four laps, I was still standing, with my dignity still somewhat intact.

It’s been nearly thirty years, but I haven’t forgotten Coach Combs and Bill Swint. One treated everyone with intimidation and disrespect. The other did the opposite. Both men have surely forgotten my name, but I remember theirs.

I ran into Coach Combs a few weeks after that quarter ended. We were at a local Mexican restaurant frequented by college students, mostly because of its good food and cheap beer. For the first time, I saw Coach happy and relaxed. He greeted me and my friends enthusiastically, with a big smile and a hug. I’m guessing it had less to do with any genuine affection and more to do with all the empty beer mugs stacked in front of him. Either way, it was too little, too late.

On the other hand, I don’t remember ever seeing Bill Swint again. I looked for his name on facebook a few weeks ago. There are three or four listed there, and I peered into their faces, trying to recognize that college boy from long ago. I’m not sure if I ever said thank you. I’d like to. I’d like him to know that the out-of-shape girl in his handball class remembers what he did for her, and she appreciates it.