Amy Mosiman: Kicka$$ Kickball Coach

"Do what she says," Vince muttered, his lips moving indecipherably, "or she'll take her kickball and go home." "Well...she just can't go and make up her own rules," Roy argued before I unceremoniously tossed him in the penalty box for a 2-minute "Arguing-with-the-referee" violation. "Uh, Mrs. Mosiman," Brett said, ignoring the dozens of laser beam stares directed at him from his fellow players, "this isn't hock-..." I swung to look at him and he froze. "Never mind," he stuttered apologetically.

Of all my life's dreams and aspirations, I never envisioned myself tackling the challenging role of becoming a kickball referee. But when 4th graders regularly come to blows just determining teams, let alone deciding who pitches, I felt the need to intervene. It was then when I was first exposed to the ugly underbelly world that is "kickball." "What do you mean you get people out by hitting them with the ball," I asked, horrified. "Don't throw the ball," became my daily mantra. I then made up a ton of false statistics about the greater probability of getting someone out on a tag rather than a throw and created a 45-minute power-point presentation to accompany my mathematical maleficence.

"Get back...get back," I yelled, tired of watching inadvertent homeruns off of over-throws. Thus I established my official 1st rule: The one-base advance off an over-throw rule. The children naturally embraced the impartiality of this adopted amendment. One player's loud reaction to my new rule led to the induction of the 2-minute penalty box (genius invention, by the way...thank you, NHL). An accidental (accidental?) shot to the face temporarily halted game-play while I checked on the health of one and raised holy he[[ with the other and thus was born another rule:  Hit to the face, advance an extra base. And the crowd went wild.

There was no stopping me now. Rule #3:  No back-to-back repeat pitchers. And then The Automatic Re-do which is put into practice when Mrs. Mosiman is temporarily distracted from game-play. "Wait, I didn't see what happened," I yelled, "My bad...we were discussing dandelions over here...Re-do!" Then there was the memorable occasion when a well-timed kick launched the ball between the parallel chains of an empty playground swing. I raised both arms over my head in excitement and yelled, "Score!" "It's not a field goal, Mrs. Mosiman," one player tried to explain, "this isn't foot-b..." I swung to look at him and he froze. "Never mind," he stuttered apologetically.

It's a lifestyle. For twenty minutes a day, kickball is the axis of my universe. It's changed me...to my very core. Where once I would have viewed the kicking of a ball into the uppermost branches of the tallest pine-tree on the playground as an annoying inconvenience, I now perceive athletic potential, waiting to be exploited...uh...I mean, lovingly developed as the annual 4th grade Kickball Tournament approached. Room 24 was ready.

"Wait...what was Rule #5," asked an opposing 4th grader from Room 25, scribbling madly during my pre-game lecture (pep-talk about sportsmanship...It's just a game...blah, blah,blah). "Automatic out if you hit Mrs. Mosiman with the ball," whispered another kid. "Has that happened," the player behind her asked. "We've tried," came the answer, accompanied by a disparaging sigh "but she's pretty quick." From the bleachers, a hand went up. "Yes," I said. "About Rule #5," a child destined to spend the entire game sitting in the 2-minute penalty box asked, "You do know, don't you, Mrs. Mosiman that this is kickball...not dodgeb..." I swung to look at him and he froze. "Never mind," he stuttered apologetically. "PLAY BALL!" I roared.