An Eye for an Eye

When I was in first grade, one of my classmates named Randy hit me in the head with a kickball during recess. I really don’t remember the events that led up to my blow to the head. I don’t remember if it was an accident or moment of rage. I don’t remember if I deserved it or not. I don’t know if the shot that was fired came from the grassy knoll was the act of an alone assassin, or whether the ball forced my head to tilt back and to the right during the fateful moment. But, I do remember the shrill sound of the whistle that blew the moment it happened and the disturbing events that unfolded after the impact.

“Wheeeeeeeeeee!!” the high-pitched squeal of the whistle vibrated my inner ear. The sound was a familiar one. It was the first “warning whistle” - our queue to stop whatever we were doing at recess and stay in place. Although it may seem a bit like turkeys being corralled into a pen, as a first grader, I ordinarily enjoyed the challenge of freezing my body on command. Normally, after one long whistle, two short whistles followed a few seconds later, signaling that we should line up outside the school and return to class. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I waited for the two short whistles.

But, this time the two short whistles didn’t follow. I moved my head to my left inspecting my surroundings. I stood on the blacktop parking lot that served as our kickball field for recess and looked at an entire playground of children ages 5-8 suddenly change from playful movement to complete stillness. The kids previously playing kickball with me on the pavement now stood frozen in place.Two girls on a seesaw were motionless, one with their legs dangling in the air, the other crouching like a frog on the ground. Children on the swing held their hands tightly around the chains with both feet extended grinding deep into the rocks below them to quickly stop their momentum. The engines that drive the world had appeared to have malfunctioned, causing all movement to come to a stop. For several seconds, no one standing on the playground moved. I turned my head along with my body towards the right, again seeing a playground full of people suddenly transformed into statues.

But among the still life in front of me, there was movement of one person only a short distance away. Sister Mary Jean, my teacher, dressed in the traditional black habit with her whistle in her mouth moved with great speed and conviction towards me. But, instead of blowing the whistle a second time, Sister Mary Jean continued her march towards me. Her eyes sneered towards me as her black dress shoes carried her across the pavement. I then realized that she was actually looking beyond me. Without losing eye contact with her prey, she bent down and picked up a kickball that was resting on the pavement and continued her long, deliberate strides past me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Randy backing away with a nervous shuffle.

In an instant, Sister Mary Jean walked past me and snatched out her right hand grabbing Randy’s ear with the same speed and accuracy of a frog’s tongue intercepting a fly in flight. She tugged Randy towards her with his ear as his leash and hissed, “I saw that, Randy! I saw you throw that ball at Brad’s head. And don’t tell me it was an accident. It was no accident. What do you have to say for yourself?!”

With his ears still in the grips of Sister Mary Jean, Randy only revealed a nervous smile. His dark face began to brighten, but he stood saying nothing. For a moment, his smile shifted to more of a grimace as she squeezed his ear, but then again returned to a smirk.

“You think this is funny? I’ll show you something funny!” Sister Mary Jean scowled beginning to shake in anger. She put the whistle to her mouth and released two short tweets - which caused all the young statues to bounce back to life. Habitually, all the students moved briskly towards the school building doors to line up to go inside.

As I started to move also, she extended the kickball in front of my chest. Instinctively, I grabbed the ball and watched her release her grip on Randy’s ear with her right hand and cusp her claw into Randy’s armpit. She took a few steps away from me pulling Randy from her left hip to her right hip. “Come with me!” she commanded. I stood motionless with the kickball in my hands. Sister Mary Jean began walking away pulling Randy with her. After a few steps, she stopped, looked back and me and snapped, “Brad follow us.”

I knew Randy was in trouble. The tone in Sister Mary Jean’s voice made me also scared of my own fate. I followed her and Randy to the place where all the students lined up. Without hesitation, Sister Mary Jean dragged Randy with her to the front of the pack, looking behind her to ensure I was keeping pace. Sister Mary Jean, Randy, and I stood in the forway inside the building as the students quietly stood in line waiting to enter the building.

Sister Mary Jean walked about 10 feet away from me with Randy still in her clutches. And, then, looked at me and flatly said, “Randy hit you in the head with a kickball. So, now you’re going to hit him with one.”

My eyes widened and my stomach tightened. Surely she was kidding. I stood motionless still holding the kickball with two hands against my chest. She lowered her chin and narrowed her eyes, focusing them intently at me, and repeated her stern directions. “Throw the ball at him, Brad.” She apparently interpreted the “an eye for an eye” reference in scripture quite literally.

I looked back at the other students in line. Most seemed unaware of the events unfolding. But, a few in the front of the line looked at me. They didn’t cheer or offer any facial reassurance, instead they merely stood quietly looking at me with curiosity and horror. I looked back at Randy. He stood squirming slightly with a nervous smile. As he shuffled his feet, I could see the grip in his armpit adjust and tighten. I followed the claw that held him in place up to the piercing eyes that intently glared at me. Sister Mary Jean seemed to be growing impatient with me.

I wanted to say that I wasn’t angry and did not want revenge. I wanted to say that I really didn’t want to throw the ball and just wanted this situation over. I wanted to ask if we could pretend like this never happened and go enjoy a good corn dog for lunch. But, the vocabulary escaped me. Like a gladiator being attacked by a lion, I felt my only option was to participate in the battle.

So, in one motion, I turned my body sideways and raised the ball with my right hand, took aim of Randy’s head, reached back, and threw the ball with all my strength.

And missed.

The kickball traveled to the right of Randy’s head hit the wall behind him, and like a billiard ball striking the rail at an angle, traveled away from all of us, down a long narrow hall. After the ball whirled past Randy’s head, there was audible “awww” that I heard from the gallery of first graders in line, followed by some chatter. But, then silence followed, with only the sound of the ball reverberating slowly to a stop in the hallway.

Sister Mary Jean interrupted the silence, by instructing a student in the front of the line to run and get the ball. The student retrieved the ball quickly and handed it back to me. Undeterred by poor marksmanship, Sister Mary Jean, just quipped, “He moved. I’ll make sure he doesn’t move this time.” She clinched both hands around his neck, basically strangling poor Randy to stay in place.

I took a few steps closer, positioning myself probably only six to eight feet from Randy and the stranglehold keeping him in place. Randy’s face reddened. I realized the only way to end this misery for Randy (and myself) was to hit my target. So, I balanced the ball again in my right hand, reached back slightly hoping that a shortened windup and slower toss might increase my odds of striking my target. The ball traveled with barely enough velocity to keep it in flight, but before gravity had time to pull it to the ground, it struck Randy’s face.

Sister Mary Jean released her clutch. Randy gasped for air. Some students cheered. The ball rolled to stop near my own feet. I lowered my head trying to hide the tears that began to fill my eyes.

Nothing about throwing a ball at Randy’s face made me feel better. If the goal was to “get even,” well I suppose we accomplished that, because we both felt awful. We both felt ashamed and embarrassed. Neither of our heads hurt from the impact of the ball, but both of our stomachs ached from the impact of the moment. I wish I would have had the courage to simply say, “No. It’s OK. I forgive him.” It would have made the outcome so much better. Revenge didn’t make me feel better. It made me feel worse.


I often think about the type of adults that I want my daughters to become. I want to raise two people that are able to stand up for their beliefs. I want them to have the confidence to voice their opinions and to fight for the causes they believe are just. I want them to disagree when they think an idea or action is a bad one. I want them to be able to think and act independently, but also know it’s OK to trust and depend on others. When they fail and have moments where they cause pain or suffering to others, I want them to have the courage to admit their mistakes and offer a sincere apology. And, when they feel slighted or wronged, I hope they have the courage and confidence to not let that moment define them. As Vince Lombardi said, “It’s not whether you get knocked down, it’s whether you get up.”

I also want them to know that the hard truth is that life is full of events that will feel like you’ve been hit in the head by a kickball. Life is full of kind, gracious people, but it also includes people that seem to be taking aim on you. Life is definitely too short to hold grudges or to hang onto hate. Life is about forgiveness, the act of letting go of anger and resentment for an offense, flaw, or mistake. Most importantly, life isn’t about getting ahead of others or about “getting even.” Life is about giving back and about sharing joy in others’ happiness.

Perhaps Gandhi said it best: “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”