On the Fields of Not So Friendly Strife - The Rest of the Story

Milford Trek, New Zealand - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

Okay, I think Priskna missed the true meaning of the General Douglas MacArthur quote. You see, I think MacArthur was talking about using sports to learn how to give your all and to learn about the importance of teamwork. In singles handball, you can give it your all, but where is the teamwork? Of course, that’s why I’m here to share the rest of the story.

In my memory most of Priskna’s story seems correct, except for the part about him weighing 140 pounds as a Fourth Class Cadet. As a classmate of Priskna’s in the 23rd squadron, I am sure it was me that weighed 140 pounds. Priskna weighed at least 143.

As a Doolie, I remember playing handball with Priskna on the weekends. He would kick my ass so bad, that I counted it a victory if I scored more than two points in a game. You see, what Priskna failed to tell you about the thrashing of Cadet Second Class McBride, is that it was no contest. Although smaller, Priskna was pound for pound one of the best athletes I have ever been around. Handball, basketball, football, tennis, or you name it, he was the guy you wanted on your team. A kamikaze skier, Priskna had a “point the tips downhill” mentality. To him, if your nose wasn’t bleeding at the end of a day of skiing, you weren’t going fast enough. Whatever sport we played, intramural or out in the quadrangle, Priskna always gave it 100%.

After the defeat of McBride and our Fourth Class year, Priskna took his handball game up a notch, playing for the Cadet Handball Club. Our Third Class year, we became part of the new 40th squadron. Over our years together in the 40th, Priskna and I continued to play an occasional weekend game of handball. My game improved over time and I could usually manage 3 or 4 on him in a game. Try as we might to make the 40th an intramural powerhouse, we were doomed by three things. The class ahead of us had virtually no athletes in our squadron, our classmates were leaving the ‘zoo’ in droves, and the ranks of the class behind us were decimated by a scandal. It seemed like most of the guys exiting the Academy from the 40th were the best athletes. As a result, those of us left behind found it hard to field competitive intramural teams. Let’s face it, a flickerball team of Wally, Soapy and Curly Joe were never going to win a game.

During my intramural career in the 40th, the teams that Priskna and I played on were competitive and usually had winning records. We learned the value of teamwork and giving it our all. We spent hours playing or practicing sports. I probably caught more touchdowns thrown by Priskna in quadrangle pick-up games than T.O. did in a career in the NFL. Unfortunately, that meant the other seasonal sports teams were probably losing more than they won. The Cadet Squadron Athletic Officer had the responsibility of putting together intramural teams for three for four sports in each three seasons (Fall, Winter and Spring). Somehow I was assigned in my Third Class year to play on the intramural handball team for the 40th, a winter sport.

To my great delight, I discovered that there were no W.R. Priskna’s playing intramural handball. So, although relative to Priskna, I was a crappy player, I went undefeated in intramural play that year, and again the next. Finally in my First Class year, I was undefeated going into my final match with Cadet First Class Wallace of 2nd Squadron. I had never played Wallace before, but he was also undefeated in intramural play. The weekend before the big match, Priskna took time away from driving his ‘Z’ around the Springs to play some handball with me. Although, I searched for weaknesses in his game, as usual, I found none; however, I managed 7 points in one game, so I was 5 points better than 3 years earlier.

The final handball match of my intramural play was a marathon event. Wallace got me in the first match by a few points. Unlike, Priskna’s opponent McBride, Wallace had a pretty decent left hand, or so it seemed initially. During the first game with Wallace I searched in vain for a weakness. It was only in the second game that I discovered his left hand was good down low, but not up high. A ceiling shot deep to his left hand seemed to put him on the defensive. I squeaked out a victory in games 2 and 3, with each game going down to the wire. I remember being so tired that I had to crawl back up the hill to the Cadet Area. Wallace was probably a better handball player than me, but I had the “Priskna” practice advantage.

For the past 40 years I have played on countless amateur sports teams, from flag football to basketball to softball. In all those years, I kept looking for teammates who combined all the aspects of team-manship and laying it all out there like Priskna did. Some came close, but still were lacking in comparison. MacArthur of course was thinking of military battles when he spoke of “other fields.” Today, my sports battles have to do with knees and speed (the lack thereof). And so, for me it is special to recall that Priskna kid of 40 years ago, all 143 pounds of him, not only earning the meal at rest in Mitchell Hall, but setting a standard I can still look back on in awe.

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.