On the Fields of Not So Friendly Strife

After a rainstorm on the Inca Trail - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman

On the fields of friendly strife are sown the seeds that on other days and other fields will bear the fruits of victory.
General Douglas MacArthur (1880 - 1964)


Intramural sports play an important part in cadet life at the Air Force Academy. Throughout the academic year there is intense competition between the squadrons of the cadet wing to determine which one will be crowned overall champion. In the 1960s and 1970s handball, a sport which requires ambidexterity, quickness, and stamina, was a very popular, high profile intramural sport.

In high school my partner Dave Sundin and I played one-wall handball. Although the one-wall game does not have the angles and variety of shots of the four-wall game, players must use both hands and learn to hit the kill shot, where the ball strikes close to the junction of the floor and wall, making it difficult for the opponent to reach the ball before bouncing twice.

As a freshman or Fourth Class Cadet, I tried out for the 23rd Squadron handball team, made the team, and became the #1 singles player. All Fourth Classmen at the Academy were exposed to relentless hazing by the upper classes, but theoretically on the athletic field there was no rank. Everyone competed on an equal footing, and upperclassmen were in some cases addressed by their first names rather than “sir.”

Near the end of the intramural handball season our team was undefeated but still had to face the tough 26th Squadron team. Their #1 singles player, Cadet Second Class McBride, an intercollegiate football player, had been a member of the 23rd Squadron for the prior two years. To say he was disliked by those in the 23rd was an understatement. He was arrogant, ambitious, and boisterous with an ego which knew no bounds. He was Napoleon in a 6 foot 2 inch, 230 pound frame.

On the day of the match I arrived at the handball court to warm up and was surprised McBride didn’t do the same. A few minutes before game time he sauntered onto the court and nodded his head in acknowledgement without saying a word. It was not surprising he took the match lightly. He was one of the best handball players in the Wing and wasn’t overly impressed by his younger opponent who weighed 140 pounds and didn’t shave. He hit a couple practice balls and then declared he was ready to play.

To determine who serves first, it is customary to lag the ball against the front wall to see which player can bounce the ball closer to the service line.

Realizing it may not be the best idea to use his first name, I asked, “Would you like to lag first, Cadet McBride?”

“That’s okay. Forget about lagging. Go ahead and serve first, Priskna.”

Obviously McBride expected to finish me off quickly, so why not let the little guy serve at least once during the first game.

I walked to the service area and glanced over my shoulder to the spectator area high above the court which was packed with upperclassmen from my squadron. It would be humiliating to get slaughtered by a jerk like McBride but worse if it was witnessed. I gave McBride one last look. He was on his heels, nonchalant, and gazing around the court.

“Ready, sir?”

“Any time.”

I drove the first serve low, hard, and with some side spin to his left hand. He couldn’t touch it. This was followed by a variety of serves to both sides: high, low, angled, with spin, and without spin. When McBride was able to return the ball, I usually was able to kill it after a short rally.

At 8-0 in the first game McBride became all business. He was on his toes, moving like a cat, and concentrating intensely but helpless. I was having one of those out of mind experiences where I could put the ball wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. There was nothing McBride could do, so he just gave up. He got his wish, a twenty minute best-two-out-of-three match. As we shook hands, I gazed at the viewers’ gallery, which now was filled to over capacity with cadets from other squadrons who wanted to see McBride’s trouncing.

That night at the evening meal I sat at attention eating another “square meal.” This was the routine. Eat in silence and hope the upperclassmen would not bother you, so you could finish your meal.

Suddenly, the Table Commandant, Cadet First Class Richardson barked, “Priskna!”

I dropped my fork and lifted my eyes from my plate to look at him. I couldn’t believe it. Rather than the usual upperclass scowl was a smile. “Yes, Sir!” I responded.

“Sit at rest, Priskna. Good job today.”

Sitting at rest was the ultimate kudos for a Fourth Class Cadet. I wasn’t allowed to talk unless addressed by an upper class cadet, but for this one meal I could eat in a normal fashion. After six months of eating every meal at attention, it felt strange to relax, look around the dining hall, and use a fork, knife, and spoon in the usual manner. It was simply one of the best moments of my life.

That evening the Cadet Wing left the dining hall and returned to the dormitories and with it my short reprieve from the fourth class system. However, the victory over McBride changed the way upperclassmen in my squadron treated me. Sometimes it takes years to make a difference, but in this case twenty minutes on the handball court was sufficient.