It doesn't hurt.
Sonia's cousin Chris claims that he invented the game, but Sonia still swears that it was her idea.
It was invented to be played in a long, narrow hallway, so apartments and mobile homes were perfect. It involved taking what were called rat-tail combs - those plastic combs you can buy at the drugstore in bags of ten - and ping-pong balls, or maybe those plastic golf balls, and whacking the hard plastic objects as hard as you could across the hallway at your opponent, who would then try, from a sitting position on the floor (kind of like a soccer goalie but shorter) to deflect it with any part of their unprotected body.
Ping pong balls were best, because they moved almost at the speed of sound, and bounced everywhere so you never knew where one was going to hit you. (Sometimes Sonia is honestly quite shocked that she made it to adulthood with no missing body parts - well, unless you count her appendix.)
The game, clearly, was not without risks. There were the obvious injuries: circular welts about the face, neck, and arms were common. Carpet burn was another hazard. Once, Sonia leapt up to block a shot and hit her head on a door handle. Chris sprained his wrist trying to flip himself back onto his feet for a rebound.
The adults tried to ban the game after that, but their efforts were met with such a unified front of dismay and pouting that Sonia's mother introduced a rule: they could only play comb-ball until someone cried.
They could only play until someone cried.
This, of course, introduced a level of masochism to the game. Sonia would take a stinging shot to the lower lip and kneel motionless in the hallway, breathing deep through clenched teeth, while her cousins eyed her warily, searching for any sign of moisture that would end the game.
"Doesn't hurt," she'd say, bravely. "Really. Doesn't hurt. Let's go, it's my shot."
Whoever cried ended the game. Whoever cried sucked.
Sonia's youngest cousin, seven at the time, ended the game the day he broke his thumb. This required a trip to emergency, and a splint. He forgot to try not to cry, and the combs were confiscated for good.
The stakes were different when they played outside - if you cried outside, you could always just go back in. And it was impossible to actually get nailed by a ping-pong ball when you had room to dodge properly. What was the point?
Sometimes Sonia worries about kids today, even though she also worries that this makes her old and annoying. Nothing hurts when you play nintendo, not even when you die. She wonders what kind of a message that sends.
She herself still utilizes the skills she learned from playing comb-ball with her cousins. After her encounter with Shiva, when Selina comes to check on her and casts an appraising eye at the deep bruises and her slightly stiff way of walking, she shrugs it off.
"Fell down some stairs," she says. "Doesn't even hurt."
And in a few days, she knows, it won't.
It was invented to be played in a long, narrow hallway, so apartments and mobile homes were perfect. It involved taking what were called rat-tail combs - those plastic combs you can buy at the drugstore in bags of ten - and ping-pong balls, or maybe those plastic golf balls, and whacking the hard plastic objects as hard as you could across the hallway at your opponent, who would then try, from a sitting position on the floor (kind of like a soccer goalie but shorter) to deflect it with any part of their unprotected body.
Ping pong balls were best, because they moved almost at the speed of sound, and bounced everywhere so you never knew where one was going to hit you. (Sometimes Sonia is honestly quite shocked that she made it to adulthood with no missing body parts - well, unless you count her appendix.)
The game, clearly, was not without risks. There were the obvious injuries: circular welts about the face, neck, and arms were common. Carpet burn was another hazard. Once, Sonia leapt up to block a shot and hit her head on a door handle. Chris sprained his wrist trying to flip himself back onto his feet for a rebound.
The adults tried to ban the game after that, but their efforts were met with such a unified front of dismay and pouting that Sonia's mother introduced a rule: they could only play comb-ball until someone cried.
They could only play until someone cried.
This, of course, introduced a level of masochism to the game. Sonia would take a stinging shot to the lower lip and kneel motionless in the hallway, breathing deep through clenched teeth, while her cousins eyed her warily, searching for any sign of moisture that would end the game.
"Doesn't hurt," she'd say, bravely. "Really. Doesn't hurt. Let's go, it's my shot."
Whoever cried ended the game. Whoever cried sucked.
Sonia's youngest cousin, seven at the time, ended the game the day he broke his thumb. This required a trip to emergency, and a splint. He forgot to try not to cry, and the combs were confiscated for good.
The stakes were different when they played outside - if you cried outside, you could always just go back in. And it was impossible to actually get nailed by a ping-pong ball when you had room to dodge properly. What was the point?
Sometimes Sonia worries about kids today, even though she also worries that this makes her old and annoying. Nothing hurts when you play nintendo, not even when you die. She wonders what kind of a message that sends.
She herself still utilizes the skills she learned from playing comb-ball with her cousins. After her encounter with Shiva, when Selina comes to check on her and casts an appraising eye at the deep bruises and her slightly stiff way of walking, she shrugs it off.
"Fell down some stairs," she says. "Doesn't even hurt."
And in a few days, she knows, it won't.