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Published on 06/15/1998 All articles from this issue

Incoming WarHeads

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By Joan Passarelli

Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans

I was looking for the WarHeads when my face exploded. No, the WarHeads weren't missiles. They were candies for sale at the softball snack bar, where I was working my parent-volunteer shift. All morning I'd been pouring coffee for shivering parents and helping kids count their coins for slushies. Then one young customer asked for raspberry WarHeads.

I was turning to look for these militaristically named sugar bombs, wondering what on earth they tasted like, when pain crash-landed on my left cheekbone. I covered my face with my hands and yelped slightly.

The thought crossed my mind that I could just handle this quietly. On reflection, however, I decided that I had never had such a justifiable reason for an outburst. I started screaming and crying.

I replayed the last few seconds in my mind to figure out what had hit me. A lightning bolt? A soda can? A disgruntled customer unhappy with his hot dog? Then it came to me: a freeze-frame image of a softball suspended in the air.

Now I have to explain that the Mountain View Bobby Sox Softball field has a well-designed, sturdily built snack bar, a structure like a small house. Furthermore, it is wisely located 50 feet away, and over a backstop, dugout, and bleachers, from the nearest possible projectile origination point (read: home plate). A batter would have to hit crazily and powerfully to put a foul ball anywhere near it. Improbable, maybe, but obviously not impossible.

Still cradling my crumpled face and uttering piteous cries, I fumbled my way toward the ice chests, wrapped some ice in a towel and clapped it on my cheek.

Fortunately, my friend Leslie was in the snack bar, too, and helped with the first aid. She's a ski patrol member and elementary school teacher, and therefore well equipped to stay calm in hazardous situations. In my pain and confusion, I was sure that my eye would be ruined for life, and I would never be able to go out in public again.

Leslie just smiled and assured me the eyeball was unharmed. But her split-second wince told me I'd better keep the ice bag on my face for a good long time.

People were very helpful when I emerged, wobbly, from the snack bar, and someone even offered to take me to the doctor. I declined as politely as I could with a clunky, dripping towel covering half my face, and went to collect my daughter.

Eyewitnesses later described, with inappropriate enthusiasm and relish, I thought at the time, a pop-up foul ball that had burst out of the batter's box, over all the chain link fencing.

One fast bounce had then hurled it straight toward the snack bar window, leaving unscathed the heads of six customers waiting in line.

"It was amazing!" exclaimed one. "What a fluke," echoed another. "That ball just had your name on it, I guess," laughed a third. I failed to see the humor in the situation.

The bruising over the next several days was magnificent: delicately shaded purple, green, and yellow. I wore sunglasses most of the time.

A week later, my glorious black eye was unnoticeable. The children no longer clamored to inspect it. My friends no longer asked, gratifyingly, "Whatever happened?" I was my same old self again.

I doubt, though, that I will ever bother to find out how WarHeads taste. My encounter with the warhead softball was enough for me.

Joan Passarelli of Mountain View is a mother of three. She even plays softball herself on occasion, safely wearing a catcher's mask.