Fifteen years later...hanball!

Monday, December 2, 2013

  This grueling sport was the forerunner to racquetball, played on a court 20’ x 40’ with 20’ ceilings and involves striking a hard, rubber ball the size of a golf ball with hands covered only in thin, leather gloves.  Played well, it requires lots of running, ambidextrous use of both hands, and excellent hand-eye coordination.  Once upon a time I had them all.  Now…about 15 years since my last game…well…I can run kinda okay.
I hadn’t been at the Y too long before it became known that I had once played handball.

“John – quit ducking me.  When are we going to play?” Gil Rieger asked me for the tenth time.  He was so anxious to get me on a court so he could destroy me that he’d actually purchased me handball gloves and a ball.  I was out of excuses.

“Monday,” I said, thinking I could get hit by a car over the weekend and not have to go through with it.  That, or he’d forget since he’s so old.

But he didn’t forget and no one ran me over.

“We still on?” he asked when he stuck his head in my office.

“Can’t wait,” I replied with phony enthusiasm.

We jumped on court one and after a brief warm-up (his was lots longer than mine) and a listing of excuses we each shared about why we thought we’d likely suck, play began.  I got the serve first…suckers always do.  It was the only mistake he would make.

Serving is good and the only time you can score points.  You simply drop the ball at your side and whack it off the front wall so that it bounces back and towards your opponent.  It’s the thing that, like riding a bike, you don’t forget how to do and I do it pretty well.  I piled up six unanswered points before losing the serve.  Now I had to receive a serve.

The trickiest part of the game when you’ve laid off for all kinds of time is to again read the bounce of the ball.  It could strike any of four walls or the ceiling and you need to figure out where it’s going and be there to strike it when it arrives.  I ran around like the proverbial chicken and seemed to always be about one step off where I should have been.  I was sweating like crazy in no time and providing wonderful entertainment for Gil, though, and that was my goal.

We played three games; I actually won one of them and came off the court feeling every muscle and knowing I’d be sore everywhere the next day.  Gil had broken a good sweat, as well, and was anxious to do it again. 

“Next Monday, John?” he asked.  I agreed, of course.  I really do love the game and though I’d bruised the crap out of my hands…and my delicate ego…I’d go at it again.  It HAD been fun.  I had PLAYED for a workout instead of being stuck on a stationary piece of equipment.  Not a bad plan, after all.

Handball match:  60 minutes.

Training Heart Rate:  100-130 bpm.
Calories burned:  600.