We all remember the set-up: a punch bowl with a dixie cup duct-taped in the center. The implement: the core of a baseball after the baseball has been unwound (very bouncy). The field was the Student Council room, with the punch bowl/dixie cup set against one wall. Participants were to stand against the far wall and attempt to bounce the ball into the punch bowl (or, *heavens!* the dixie cup).
The structure was knock-out format. Players would take turns bouncing the ball in. Each player was guaranteed one turn, after that half of participants would be eliminated in each round. Say there were four players: each would get one turn, after that the first two to make it in the punch bowl would advance to the (in this case) finals. BUT, if any player sank the ball into the dixie cup - whether on the fly or on the bounce - the game immediately ended and that player was the winner. So named Mickeyball because one Michael (Mickey) Nelson won the inaugural game consisting of eight players, through a punch bowl shot.
Now, if memory serves, we had played three or four total games by about 1:00 pm. Our list of players had been rotating somewhat as folks came and went to class (or wherever). In that time I believe one person had sunk the ball into the dixie cup. (I cannot recall who exactly, though Darren Hubbard jumps to mind.) By this time, the crowd in the SC room was about a dozen truants.
Following a lunch period one Steve Scroggins (Attendance Liaison and purported former basketball standout in his youth - a quick google confirms) came into the room to query the growing, increasingly boisterous, crowd. The general idea behind Mickeyball was explained to Scroggins who, of course, was promptly handed the very Mickeyball and offered to try his luck. Scroggins, cool as anything, clad in his distinctive full track suit, lined up his shot, and with a gentle flick of the wrist released the Mickeyball which took a single bounce and - God as my witness - sank cleanly into the aforementioned dixie cup. My friends, the place EXPLODED! Only two other times can I remember such a spontaneous eruption of joy to such a seemingly mundane athletic feat.* It was bedlam. Screams of elation and disbelief echoed through the science corridor. Luke Garafola slumped deep in the chair in the corner, as though the very spirit departed him when the ball sank. Anthony Brown was nearly inconsolable laughing. Jacob Barker-Huelster put his hands on his head, and, mouth agape, exclaimed "No fucking way." It may the closest I have ever come to a religious experience. Steve Scroggins simply pumped his fist once, and silently, departed back into the hallway and his appointed rounds. As I remember the singular act functionally ended further competition. We had seen the best. Mickeyball was born and died that day.
Truly, truly, the best of times.
–John Heydinger
October 2024
* One such feat involving an overweight gentleman nicknamed The Bearcat in a dodgeball game; the other, my Aunt Carol pitching a card into a casserole dish from across the room.
