Gadfly Article: "'OW!'"
Some of the crazy things people do at my school:
"OW!"
Once, way back in my Febbie days, I took a shot at playing Melee. I emerged from this experience with quarter-size bruises covering my ribs and a newfound respect for those who were obsessed with role-playing games: not all geeks were wimps. Crazy, perhaps, but still a lot manlier than I could ever hope to be.
This was back in the glory days of Melee, when Mr. McIlvain could hold off three guys with a sword in each hand even with both legs cut off, and Mr. Grape took advantage of his Lyme-induced night vision in order to hold "blackout" Melee tournaments in the Temple, during which he would be the only one that could see. Men whose names are now synonymous with might, such as Nathan "Landmass" Lande and Colin Brown, shook the soccer field with the wrath of Ajax and Achilles. It was with these memories that, camera in hand, I went out to see how the newest generation of Melee players measured up.
Melee, for those Freshmen who stare askance at the soccer field every Wednesday evening, is not exclusive to St. John's. It has its roots in rural, sparsely populated areas such as Appalachia, where blue collar workers with a lot of free time and natural aggression often develop an unchecked obsession with fantasy. Living the last 15 years of my life in West Virginia has made me familiar with this climate, which, like the Venetian swamps of old, breed such unique American pastimes as the SCA, Leather Camp, and the Jolo Serpent Handlers. By comparison, Melee is the kinder, gentler, more wholesome alternative:
This year's Melee group numbers around twenty people, and, I noticed, contained a surprising amount of women. They were sorting through a large pile of foam weapons when I got there, and were debating the fairness of allowing a particularly unruly member the use of a "spear" as opposed to a short sword that would give him less of an unfair advantage. At length, Freshman Jason Ritzke, his hair tied back with a black bandana emblazoned with skulls, declared the meeting in session. The team split into two opposing "armies", who faced off on opposite ends of the soccer field.
If there are a sufficient amount of people on the field, this is where the adrenaline rush kicks in. During the best games, the opposing teams stare at once another for a few seconds, and, if the chemistry is right, will suddenly rush at each other with a scream of "AAAARRRRGGGHHH!" People are "hamstrung", stabbed in the back, and get their arms and legs "cut off" with all the glee of the average Monty Python movie. Once a limb is "disabled", the player must act as if it no longer works. This leads to the classic Melee pose of hopping after someone on one foot while trying to whack them with your foam sword, or of a single man kneeling in a field, a sword in each hand, while the other players circle him like vultures and usually dispatch him with a stab in the back.
It very quickly became too dark to see, and as the players stopped to rest on the steps of the Observatory, I asked them what had made them decide to start this particular sport. William "Ender Wiggin" Kunkel said that he had heard about the St. John's Melee Club when he applied, and had come with foam sword in hand...only to discover that most of the Melee weapons were either broken or unsafe. He had teamed up with Mr. Ritzke, who, before he came to St. John's, "was LARPing in the middle of nowhere, where they don't have anything else to do."
"Besides have sex and take drugs," Mr. Ritzke added.
"What?" said someone, "No rock and roll?"
Together they had managed to mend most of the Melee weapons, but then discovered that they were in need of a new Archon. Strangely enough, though it was Mr. Kunkel's idea to save Melee from extinction, neither he nor Mr. Ritzke (who, at six feet and around 200 pounds, might be the poster boy for Melee) were able to step in. Due to a new regulation that states that Freshmen can no longer be Archons of clubs, Miss , a 5 '11, 150 pound Junior, was appointed. During the match she had stood leaning against the overturned soccer goal, acting as referee.
During this interview the members also spoke of their dreams for a new, improved Melee. Besides the great need for better weapons, they would like more members, so that Melee could have the immense pitched battles that really get the adrenaline going, and actual strategies and massive war games could be implemented (think capture the flag, only with swords). They would also like to meet earlier in the day, but had found that any other schedule conflicted with all the other war sports, such as Aikido. Currently they are thinking of moving into the 1 p.m.- 3 p.m. slot now used by German Longsword, which has so few members it might soon be disbanded.
Finally, I asked them to describe to me the attraction of being hit with a padded stick.
Mr. Kunkel announced that, "We're sadists, really. We do this to convince people that we really are normal, and then we go back into our rooms and have kinky S&M sex."
Another player stated that "There are no contact sports at St. John's". Even in St. John's football there is no tackling allowed, and the toughest players must content themselves with snatching little ribbons off their opponent's belts. For those who demand that sports carry the risk of manly bruising in order to be a challenge, Melee is the thing.
And, as William Sloan predictably said, "It's just fun."
Perhaps, I reflected, Mr. Pickens had been too PC in demasculinizing the sports at St, John's. Many years ago, I had attended the Pennsic War, a yearly SCA event where over 10,000 people, not only with foam swords but full armor crated with as much love and skill as other boys typically spent on their classic cars, went head to head on bridges, castles, and in the nearby woods. There was a kind of savagery in the air, mixed with dust, sweat, and adrenaline, that I had never felt before. I discovered that thousands of hairy men descending on you while screaming "ARRRGHH! " is terrifying, even when their swords are made of foam, and there were often as many concussions, sprains, and broken ribs as in real battles. Later, when reading The Iliad's description of swords pounding shields and helmets with a sound like chopping wood, I had been vividly taken back to those hot summer days. Yes, back in the Golden Age when men could fight like gods, it really was like that.
The Melee Club, I reflected, had an important niche at St. John's: it reminded us armchair philosophers what hand-to-hand combat was actually like. During an "endurance" battle between Mr. Ritzke and Mr. Kunkel, this was shown in vivd detail. The rule was that the first player to say "Ow!" was considered the loser. Mr. Ritzke, having been nailed by Mr. Kunkel in a part that Homer was too polite to mention in The Iliad, should have fallen, but instead he bravely kept on fighting. A few minutes later, Mr. Kunkel, after unwisely taunting Mr, Ritzke, had to run like Hector in a Book Twenty-Two like chase around the Observatory, during which the Archon yelled "No brick! No brick!" They made it out into the soccer field and back before finally, some 15 minutes later, Mr. Ritzke gave in and collapsed. I'm sure that such displays of manly resistance to pain are seldom seen even at the Naval Academy.
But now it was full dark, and time to carry all the weapons back into the Temple. I helped, gathering up an armful of padded swords and battle axes, and stood in line to put them back. "Where do they go?" asked someone, and Mr. Ritzke said, "See that shelf that's too small? That's ours."
As we walked back through the darkness to our respective dorms, someone commented on what a good meeting this had been. As Mr. Kunkel added, "At least no one heckled us this time."
Exclusive Photos!
"OW!"
Once, way back in my Febbie days, I took a shot at playing Melee. I emerged from this experience with quarter-size bruises covering my ribs and a newfound respect for those who were obsessed with role-playing games: not all geeks were wimps. Crazy, perhaps, but still a lot manlier than I could ever hope to be.
This was back in the glory days of Melee, when Mr. McIlvain could hold off three guys with a sword in each hand even with both legs cut off, and Mr. Grape took advantage of his Lyme-induced night vision in order to hold "blackout" Melee tournaments in the Temple, during which he would be the only one that could see. Men whose names are now synonymous with might, such as Nathan "Landmass" Lande and Colin Brown, shook the soccer field with the wrath of Ajax and Achilles. It was with these memories that, camera in hand, I went out to see how the newest generation of Melee players measured up.
Melee, for those Freshmen who stare askance at the soccer field every Wednesday evening, is not exclusive to St. John's. It has its roots in rural, sparsely populated areas such as Appalachia, where blue collar workers with a lot of free time and natural aggression often develop an unchecked obsession with fantasy. Living the last 15 years of my life in West Virginia has made me familiar with this climate, which, like the Venetian swamps of old, breed such unique American pastimes as the SCA, Leather Camp, and the Jolo Serpent Handlers. By comparison, Melee is the kinder, gentler, more wholesome alternative:
This year's Melee group numbers around twenty people, and, I noticed, contained a surprising amount of women. They were sorting through a large pile of foam weapons when I got there, and were debating the fairness of allowing a particularly unruly member the use of a "spear" as opposed to a short sword that would give him less of an unfair advantage. At length, Freshman Jason Ritzke, his hair tied back with a black bandana emblazoned with skulls, declared the meeting in session. The team split into two opposing "armies", who faced off on opposite ends of the soccer field.
If there are a sufficient amount of people on the field, this is where the adrenaline rush kicks in. During the best games, the opposing teams stare at once another for a few seconds, and, if the chemistry is right, will suddenly rush at each other with a scream of "AAAARRRRGGGHHH!" People are "hamstrung", stabbed in the back, and get their arms and legs "cut off" with all the glee of the average Monty Python movie. Once a limb is "disabled", the player must act as if it no longer works. This leads to the classic Melee pose of hopping after someone on one foot while trying to whack them with your foam sword, or of a single man kneeling in a field, a sword in each hand, while the other players circle him like vultures and usually dispatch him with a stab in the back.
It very quickly became too dark to see, and as the players stopped to rest on the steps of the Observatory, I asked them what had made them decide to start this particular sport. William "Ender Wiggin" Kunkel said that he had heard about the St. John's Melee Club when he applied, and had come with foam sword in hand...only to discover that most of the Melee weapons were either broken or unsafe. He had teamed up with Mr. Ritzke, who, before he came to St. John's, "was LARPing in the middle of nowhere, where they don't have anything else to do."
"Besides have sex and take drugs," Mr. Ritzke added.
"What?" said someone, "No rock and roll?"
Together they had managed to mend most of the Melee weapons, but then discovered that they were in need of a new Archon. Strangely enough, though it was Mr. Kunkel's idea to save Melee from extinction, neither he nor Mr. Ritzke (who, at six feet and around 200 pounds, might be the poster boy for Melee) were able to step in. Due to a new regulation that states that Freshmen can no longer be Archons of clubs, Miss , a 5 '11, 150 pound Junior, was appointed. During the match she had stood leaning against the overturned soccer goal, acting as referee.
During this interview the members also spoke of their dreams for a new, improved Melee. Besides the great need for better weapons, they would like more members, so that Melee could have the immense pitched battles that really get the adrenaline going, and actual strategies and massive war games could be implemented (think capture the flag, only with swords). They would also like to meet earlier in the day, but had found that any other schedule conflicted with all the other war sports, such as Aikido. Currently they are thinking of moving into the 1 p.m.- 3 p.m. slot now used by German Longsword, which has so few members it might soon be disbanded.
Finally, I asked them to describe to me the attraction of being hit with a padded stick.
Mr. Kunkel announced that, "We're sadists, really. We do this to convince people that we really are normal, and then we go back into our rooms and have kinky S&M sex."
Another player stated that "There are no contact sports at St. John's". Even in St. John's football there is no tackling allowed, and the toughest players must content themselves with snatching little ribbons off their opponent's belts. For those who demand that sports carry the risk of manly bruising in order to be a challenge, Melee is the thing.
And, as William Sloan predictably said, "It's just fun."
Perhaps, I reflected, Mr. Pickens had been too PC in demasculinizing the sports at St, John's. Many years ago, I had attended the Pennsic War, a yearly SCA event where over 10,000 people, not only with foam swords but full armor crated with as much love and skill as other boys typically spent on their classic cars, went head to head on bridges, castles, and in the nearby woods. There was a kind of savagery in the air, mixed with dust, sweat, and adrenaline, that I had never felt before. I discovered that thousands of hairy men descending on you while screaming "ARRRGHH! " is terrifying, even when their swords are made of foam, and there were often as many concussions, sprains, and broken ribs as in real battles. Later, when reading The Iliad's description of swords pounding shields and helmets with a sound like chopping wood, I had been vividly taken back to those hot summer days. Yes, back in the Golden Age when men could fight like gods, it really was like that.
The Melee Club, I reflected, had an important niche at St. John's: it reminded us armchair philosophers what hand-to-hand combat was actually like. During an "endurance" battle between Mr. Ritzke and Mr. Kunkel, this was shown in vivd detail. The rule was that the first player to say "Ow!" was considered the loser. Mr. Ritzke, having been nailed by Mr. Kunkel in a part that Homer was too polite to mention in The Iliad, should have fallen, but instead he bravely kept on fighting. A few minutes later, Mr. Kunkel, after unwisely taunting Mr, Ritzke, had to run like Hector in a Book Twenty-Two like chase around the Observatory, during which the Archon yelled "No brick! No brick!" They made it out into the soccer field and back before finally, some 15 minutes later, Mr. Ritzke gave in and collapsed. I'm sure that such displays of manly resistance to pain are seldom seen even at the Naval Academy.
But now it was full dark, and time to carry all the weapons back into the Temple. I helped, gathering up an armful of padded swords and battle axes, and stood in line to put them back. "Where do they go?" asked someone, and Mr. Ritzke said, "See that shelf that's too small? That's ours."
As we walked back through the darkness to our respective dorms, someone commented on what a good meeting this had been. As Mr. Kunkel added, "At least no one heckled us this time."
Exclusive Photos!