Bang. Bang. The Volleyballs ricocheted off the brick walls in quick sucession. The two groups of boys were huddled at opposite ends of the room. They were dressed in matching polo shirts and gym shorts, in a wild mismatch of sizes. Thud. One of the balls hit the smallest boy in the chin. A whistle was blown. "Watson, you're benched." yelled the teacher, an ageing man with a very red face. The boy who was called took his place next to a gangly indian with glasses, and a large boy - known as Stamford. Bang. Crash. Thud. The balls echoed like gunshots, and more and more boys sat on the bench. A couple of boys were sat on the opposing bench, but it was clear that they had a far stronger team. At one point, Stamford was called back into play and sent of before he even reached the centre of the gymnasium. The other team laughed. The first of many balls came careering towards the bench, and even John had to duck to avoid getting hit. With five players left, the indian was called back on, but was also sent off instantaneously. John could feel the inside of his cheek beginning to bleed ,where his jaw had caught it when he was hit. Now only two people were left playing on his team, and ten of the biggest boys where left on the other one. Dave - the school bully- who was as broad as he was tall, laughed as another boy slunk over to the bench. One left. They would lose, as always happened, and John would only have 20 minutes left until he was free to go to his next lesson. His mind began to wonder about the essay that was due, and if the three sides he had written would be enough to get him an A, when the whistle blew.
"Watson, you're on" yelled the teacher. He sat dead still and pretented not to hear him. Eleven (the other team had gained a play while he'd been daydreaming) verses Two. This would be a slaughter, and he didn't want to be part of it. The teacher yelled again, and John realized he would have no excuse for not having heard him a second time. He slowly made his way towards the centre of the gym, and prayed. One ball flew at him instantly. He ducked, but it got the other boy in the stomach. One against eleven. (Or as they used to tease, half againest eleven - John had constantly been told as a child that he was too short to be a whole person). The whistle blew and John ducked, missing the three oncoming missiles, but smashing his knee into the wooden floor. He winced, and gathered himself back up again, collecting two of the projectiles, and aiming to throw as the third hit him square in the back of the head.
There were two of his head. Two of each of the vastly outnumbering players on the other team. John hoped this was the end of the game , but as no whitsle was blown he'd have to carry on. They chanted his name, all the rejects and loners and everyone sat on both of those benches. He lifted his hand higher towards his face. He dragged the ball back and began to aim. 22 targets to choose from, and all of them were rather blurry around the edges. John brought his hand forward to find that there were two of them, and two of the ball. His wrist flexed, dropping the ball at his feet. All four of them. There was a loud thud as it bounced away.
John doubled over, and vomited.