Although the city is billed as a sunny Californian paradise, the fact remains that it is rarely warm enough to leave the house without a sweater in San Francisco. This makes San Franciscans, at least in this one respect, just like the rest of the country in that on particularly warm days they go nuts. And by nuts I mean that everyone finds a bicycle, some running gear, a ball, a tennis racket, etc and heads out to soak up some rays. EVERYONE. Its as if the sun on the west coast has decided to pose as some hippy statue of liberty admitting the pale, the uncoordinated, the chubby denizens of the darkened bar rooms to a place where the streets are paved with gold. In other words, it’s a mess.
I digress.
Wednesday happened to be one of these beautiful days. And in keeping with the city-wide athletic hysteria, I decided to head to the local park to shoot some hoops. I assumed I’d be alone because my neighborhood isn’t exactly pick up game central. I assumed wrong. It seems the local elementary school teachers were inspired by the sun as well and decided to use P.E. class as an excuse to take their 5th graders on a mini fieldtrip. At first their presence annoyed me, they took up too much space and the shrieks of a happy childhood are probably the last thing you want to hear when you’re sweating out a hangover. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed they were playing dodge ball. Now, I must confess I am a fan of both the movie and the genre generally. No matter how mature I try to convince myself that I’ve become, there is still a 3rd grader living in my head that thinks that seeing people beaned by foreign objects is the funniest thing since Nick Cannon.
No matter where you grew up, there is one thing I can guarantee. Whereas accents and social mores may change, the game of dodge ball always plays out the same. It begins in the first few minutes, the faster, cuter children triangulate on their weaker fatter classmates. All at once the chubby kids are pummeled with ferociously thrown oblong objects. Their flabby torso’s conforming to the bright red ball like tempur-pedic mattresses, Their bouncing heads tossing disheveled hair into a state of electrified shock. They are in fact out.
Surprisingly, this isn’t even the cruel part of the game.
The real cruelty in dodge ball, much like domestic violence, occurs after the punch. Physical pain is a fleeting thing, it flashes in and out of ones consciousness leaving only anger at a vague memory. This is why the good lord invented psychological torture. We have already established that the fat kids in dodge ball stand no chance at avoiding an ear-ringing elimination. However, after that elimination the rules of the game require that they sit on the sidelines rooting for their flighty exterminators until the game begins anew. They sit restlessly of course, pretend to amble, to pay no attention, but in reality they know the truth: that something within them, something deficient has transformed them from participants to audience and will do so for as long as the game is played.
This is the cruelty, but there is also sadness.
The sadness is that dodge ball mirrors life. In ten or twenty years, the same children will be all-together too grown up to throw red balls at one another. The places where they play will change from grass covered fields to oak paneled bars. The same fat kid, barring the miracles of internet startups, personal trainers, or liposuction, will walk into the bar ready to play the game. They’ll make eye contact with the skirted beauty queen at the bar. They’ll saunter over. Offer to buy a drink. It is this part of the story that I can never get right. Does she accept the drink and give it to a thirsty male friend? Drink it and walk away? Does she simply say no thank you? Giggle? At any rate the point is that this will all end badly. The woman will remain seated at the bar. The fat kid(man) will walk away chin up, as single as the Amstel light in his hand. He will take his seat on the sidelines and he watch his faster, cuter peers continue to play their lively game.
I must confess, watching these kids participate in their pre-pubescent hierarchy ritual actually made me sad. I looked at the athletic kids, whizzing around enjoying game. I looked to the sidelines. The chubby kids. I expected them to bow their heads knowingly, to actively avoid each others shame, but they didn’t. They were smiling, laughing even, perhaps thinking of things that made them happy, things that were withheld those participating in that silly game. I remember thinking that you can’t ever completely discount clichés: They say every cloud has a silver lining, every sad child a happy future, Well… unlike their thin, muscled competitors, every fat man has Chili-Fritos.*
*Chili and Fritos Casserole
By Michael Hastings
JOURNAL FOOD EDITOR
Several people responded to Katherine Weatherly's request for a chili and Fritos casserole. Because the recipes were so similar, we've created a composite below.
Most of them called for canned chili and grated American cheese, but most cooks will find that the flavor improves significantly with homemade chili and a good sharp Cheddar cheese.
Fritos Chili Pie Casserole
2 1/2 to 3 cups Fritos (or other brand) corn chips
1 large onion, chopped ( 3/4 to 1 cup)
2 1/2 cups chili (or 1 19-ounce can)
1 cup grated Cheddar (or American) cheese
Place half the corn chips in a baking dish. Sprinkle with all the chopped onions and half the cheese. Top with all the chili, then the rest of the corn chips and cheese.
Bake in a 350-degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes, or until cheese is bubbly.
Makes 6 servings.
