The Worst Play Yet!

Five — count 'em — five of them. Whatever this crazy skin condition… or hair condition… or whatever condition was, I hadn't seen it, or even heard of it, at all before today.

And now I had seen a whole six victims! Err, patients? A whole six people afflicted is what I'm getting at.

I gulped. "The curse?"

"Could be," Snowball murmured back. "Yeah."

"Dude…" Fence said.

Snapping back to reality and the problem at hand all of a sudden, I whipped around to face Harry and found myself locking eyes with him. "So, wait. Because these hairy people showed up, we have to throw the match?"

"Yeah," he said, gravely.

"Just lose the match? On purpose?"

"Yeah."

"Why?!"

"It's…" He finally broke eye contact. For a second, he seemed to be lost in thought. Well, that's what I guessed anyway. He was flexing his muscles and striking all kinds of crazy poses. That's what ripped guys do when they think, right?

Finally, he just said: "... It's complicated."

"Complicated my left sock! I want to win, dangit!"

"L-look, random kid, we, uh, we just can't ok? We can't just trash the other team in front of those people."

"And why not?" I glared at him. He was being super sketch. And he was still avoiding eye contact, looking every which way but mine.

"C-cause," he said. "There are reasons. Just believe me, ok?"

But before I could respond with something to the effect of "hell no!" Snowball broke in and said…

"Ok."

"Ok?! How is that ok? You want to lose now?" Why did Snowball want to lose? Snowball hated losing!

"No." She shook her head. "But I can tell that our teammate here is being honest. That he's being truthful — that there are reasons we need to do this, and good ones. That we can't let those hairy weirdos see this hairy weirdo be defeated. And most of all, that he needs our help." She looked at him expectantly. "Right?"

"Right, other random kid. You hit the bullseye on the head. Or whatever the saying is."

WAIT. Did he just?!

"Alright, fine," I said all of a sudden. "I'm in too."

"That was quick," said our Harry. "Not complaining, but why the change of heart?"

"Because" — I smiled — "I trust anyone who messes up sayings that badly at least a little, just offhand."

Just like me, Harry seemed to have the tendency to never remember how sayings and idioms went. So he couldn't be all bad, right?

"Weird. But I'll take it." He flashed me a thumbs up.

"Alright, dudes," said Fence. "How're we gonna pull this off?"

"Glad to see the ref's up for it too." Harry smiled. "Alright, here's how we're gonna fail epically on purpose…"

#

"JESUS H. CHRIST ON A GODDAM UNICYCLE, NO MORE! PLEASE! NO MORE!"

If I had known failing epically on purpose was gonna entail this much pain and humiliation, and burning mouthfuls of beach sand, I would have failed epically accidentally like I normally do!

Actually, the pain/humiliation/sand weren't even the worst part of all of this. That crown would have to go to the stomach-plummeting centrifugal force.

I was getting a hands-on science lesson over summer break. And that just wasn't fair. You weren't supposed to learn anything over summer break!

"Keep it up! You're doing great! Just a little more!" Snowball's words of encouragement were doing nothing to lift my spirits. But Harry's gigantic biceps were doing more than enough to lift my entire body by the ankles.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy, man!"

Harry wasn't even listening.

Meanwhile, Fence was howling like a hyena on helium. "Hahaha! Ahahahahaha! Hang in there, dude! This is probably just the curse's doing or something! Hahahaha!"

"Oh you think it's… so funny seeing me get spun… around by my ankles, huh?!" I had to split snapping back at him into bite sized chunks since I only rotated around to his side so quickly.

To spell out what was happening: Harry had me by the ankles and was spinning me around like one of those spinning rides at a county fair. Only with less chance of chucking up deep fried pop tarts, and more chance of literally dying. If Harry's grip slipped even a bit, I was a dead man.

This was all part of the plan to let the hairy guy — not Harry, but the literally hair guy on the other team — have his moment in the sun and woo his equally woolly audience with his epic volleyball skillz.

The problem, of course? His skillz weren't even close to epic. So we were improvising. This was all part of the plan to throw the match.

The plan was to return the other team's pitiful moves with a classic volleyball technique known as, and I quote Harry, "the spinning face slap," where you intercept an incoming ball with your face while being spun around at top speed, smacking it into the sand on your side to lose the rally intentionally.

"In what universe is that a classic?! You just made that up right now!" is what I asked when he explained it before we resumed the match. Take a wild guess which one of us had been voted spinner, and which spinnee.

Harry just shrugged. "Well, modern classic. Trust me, after today, this move might just go down in history. Y'know, become a standard play in volleyball matches everywhere."

"Yeah, no. Not happening. Also, might? Seriously? If you're gonna be deluded about this, at least be a little more sure of yours— whoa!!"

At that moment all my complaints were nullified by two beach-tanned arms thicker than barrels. It wasn't just Harry's stupidity that was sweeping me off my feet here. It was his brute strength.

Which brings us back to the present, in which I was currently being gifted the honor of smacking the most pitiful volleyball serves known to man into the sand with my face.

"OH GOD OH NO NOT THE SAND AGAIN OH AAGHAFHHAHHGSGDWIUDWOHUWOUH!!!!"

Did I mention my face was being smacked directly into the sand along with the ball each go-around? Well, now I have. Imagine how pleasant that was. Then imagine something ten times worse and you're probably halfway to imagining how bad it actually was.

But hey, at least we were succeeding.

At, uh, failing.

Right. That was actually the most painful part, or would've been if my head wasn't being used as a bludgeoning instrument: the fact that I was going through all of this so that we could lose. On purpose. Great. Just great. Seriously, why was this necessary again? I usually failed epically enough without getting my face caved in, dangit!

"Blech. Ptooey!" I spat what felt like at least five fistfuls of sand out of my mouth.

"Yes! Another round goes to the other team! Great job, guys!" Snowball was ecstatic. Of course she was totally on board with the whole deal. Her role in all of this was to do literally nothing, so she was basically just hanging out on the court acting as a cheerleader as I repeatedly ate sand.

"We're doing awesome, team!" Harry insisted as he hefted me back up and got me spinning again. "We're losing by a landslide now. We probably look like we don't even know how the game's played. Oop, here comes another one."

Thwak.

"AAAHGHFHFHDJGFJJDJSOWPHIDWHPIW!!!!"

"Hawhawhawhaw! Get 'em, dude!"

Dammit, Fence, say that to my face when this is through, I dare you! Err. Well. If I even have any face left when this is through.

I guess it really is like they say: it's not whether you win or lose, but how completely you humiliate your opponents and how thoroughly you destroy any possibility of dignity and self esteem on their part. Or something like that. The other team was doing a pretty swell job, and we were letting them.

At least the five hairy spectators were getting to see their comrade-in-hair on the court score win after win after win.

That's just what I was thinking when Harry lifted me back up for yet another round. He started spinning around just like he had been, picked up speed, and then more, and then more, and then?

His hands slipped.

Meaning my ankles slipped out of them.

Meaning I went shooting off like a rocket, headfirst, parallel to the sand below, at speeds previously thought attainable only by jet aircraft, space shuttles, and Fence gunning off the return bus and straight to the school bathroom after holding it for our entire sixth grade camping trip.

"Oops," I heard Harry say.

If I wasn't insanely lucky at the strangest of times — and never anytime else — it very well could have been the last word I ever heard.

To be continued!