Refereeing a 4-Square Game, and Other Reasons 8-Year-Olds Suck

"Pffffffttttt." The sound of the end of a duct-tape roll being stretched over a recycled cardboard box. It was packing time at Richmond Elementary, and I was soon to be reminded that, indeed, 8-year-olds will liken anything to the sound of flatulence.

"Ppppffffffftttt," I sealed another cardboard box full of posters and math supplies. I labeled it "miscellaneous," which was an abbreviated way of saying "this classroom has no organization, and in all reality, this box contains random $hit that should probably be thrown away. You own 700 plastic triangle cut-outs. And we're in a budget crisis." Miscellaneous.

"Pfffftttttt," I snapped the tape after it overlapped the top of the box, only to hear a couple muffled giggles.

Then, it happened.

An onslaught of high pitched yelps, coupled with hearty "HA-HA-HA-HA's!" before a slew of accusations:

"Sean farted!"

"He farted!"

"Eeeewww! Sean!"

"Oh my gosh it smells like eggs, you guys!"

I have to admit, it was pretty funny. I started laughing, but apparently, that was a bad move. The fill-in teacher of the classroom decided packing was a distraction and informed me, "Sean, your packing duties are postponed for the day."

Rats...what can I possibly do, if I can't make fart-noises with duct-tape? Looking back on it, I should not have asked this question, because the answer was one of my darkest fears:

Referee a four-square game.

If you've ever played four-square, you remember it either as the game you loved because you kicked everyone's a$$ when you were 8, or you remember it as the game that scarred your competitive confidence for the rest of your life.

For a tall, lanky kid who sometimes (always) cried if he got out, getting a red rubber ball smacked at me as hard as the opposition could propel it was not exactly a fond memory of mine.

Regardless, I tried my best to, you know, watch the kids, make sure they don't kill eachother, and always, ALWAYS call out the "Liner's."

"LINER!" The short, chubby 3rd grader screamed to me, on the verge of tears.

"What?" I replied.

"It was a LINER!" He said.

"SEAN! LINER!" He said, his lips quivering as his body was preparing to go into total and complete shock if I called him out.

"Liner? What the hell is a liner?" I said.

"Adult word! Adult word!" Some kid yelled, running through mud-puddles in the distance, flicking boogers on his classmate.

"It hit the LI-yinnnnE! So it's Ooooowwwt!" He said, in that whiny, awful 8-year-old voice that only 3rd graders can manage.

"Okay, Jesus. Fine. Liner!?" I said.

"WHAT!?!?!?" The 2nd grader who just got called out said, as if he just found out Spongebob Squarepants got cancelled.

He then proceeded to protest my call. It was really hard to take him seriously, because he was as tall as my shin, and sounded like John Mcenroe with a lisp.

"Youw can't be sewious! Wewre you evun watching? That's WEALLY WEALLY BAD!" He said, grinding his teeth, contemplating ways he could climb my body to destory me.

Another key element to 4-square is establishing whether "over-handers" are allowed or not. If you play with the "over-hand" rule, you can hit the ball a lot harder. Since there were 2nd graders in line, I decided under-hand only would be best for everyone.

This was a seamless transition for most kids, except for one little girl, who had some sort of thick European accent that I couldn't decipher.

"Soo, like deez?" She said, motioning her hands forward, with her palms facing down.

"No, sweetheart, you have to do it with your palms facing up. Under-hand only," I said.

"Oooog, ooog, so, like deez?" she said, her palms now facing outward, her elbows turned outside.

"No, no sweetheart," I said.

I reached out to turn her hands so that her palms would face upwards. She would not allow it. She provided an immense amout of resistance, and was not letting me rotate her wrists, or move her arms at all, for that matter.

"Hehe," she said, as she stared directly into my eyes with a weirdly menacing grin.

"I vey strong!" she said, in a voice that sounded like she hadn't swallowed her saliva for ten minutes.

"Haha, oh yeah? Have you been lifting?" I said, jokingly, expecting a blank stare in response.

To my surprise, she had been lifting.

"Yez. Mother make me lift milk jug. Over and over. Father have strong arm also!" She said.

"Pushups? Wan see?" She asked.

"No, it's fine...just remember to hit only under-hand, we don't want anyone to get hurt." I said.

Naturally, as soon as she steps foot on the court, she uses her mammoth arms to smack the ball with such force directly at the 2nd grader who is about the same size as the ball, and hits him square in the chest. The force of the ball nearly picked him up off of the pavement, and he started crying on his way to get an ice-pack from the office.

"I did eet!" She yelped, extremely proud of herself.

"No, you are out. You have to hit it under-hand." I said.

"Buh...wha...I...? Ugh...i hit? But...I Hit! I heet ze bol!" She said, in an utter state of confusion.

"You're out." I said.

She looked at me with such confusion and rage, it was unlike any malice I had seen from an 8 year old. She was envisioning me as the milk jug, and I was about to get lifted.

That is, until her friend came along.

"Wanna play house?" Her friend asked.

"Sure," she replied.

Off into the distance she scampered away, laughing about threatening the 4-square referee, and undoubtedly preparing to challenge her friend to a push-up contest.