The Piñata Incident

By Steve McFarland

One-by-one we filed into the gymnasium. It was there, on that May 5, we were introduced to Mexico's independence - in the form of a brightly-colored donkey hung from a tether ball pole. Word quickly spread that it was filled with candy.

Everyone privately strategized, anticipating the would-be feeding frenzy. Everyone, that is, but the highly sensitive and allergic Johanna. Johanna's soy milk confounded the rest of the class daily. This traditional ethnic celebration was the exact type of activity she regularly begged out of.

As it turned out, every strategy was laid to waste as Sister Rose handed Brent the George Brett-signature Louisville Slugger. Brent, perennial first-picked, would go first. A consistent kickball run-producer, Brent regularly sent the ball from pavement to monastery roof faster than you could say "Amen." Any spite the rest of the class may have held for him and his penchant for prematurely ending every game was tempered by outright admiration. You had to respect the power.

That being said, Sr. Rose's decision was a curious one. What happened to the last shall be first? And the meek inheriting something or other? As Johanna took a hit from her inhaler, we jockeyed for position. There would be no time for strategy. No one had any delusions about the donkey's chances. This would be over right-quick. The slowest among us would be left crawling on the perimeter gathering candy separated from its wrapper during what promised to be a savage blow.

Brent didn't disappoint. With one violent swing he tore that burro a new one. I, notorious for my aggressive Irish temper, was predictably first to the caramel. As I fashioned a basket out of the front of my t-shirt, lightening struck. "Brent, NO!" the good Sister yelled a little too late.

Not knowing the full extent of the damage, he recoiled and unleashed a second fury. This time getting his money's worth, catching my skull in his wheelhouse. Like the piñata a split-second before me, I released all the candy in my possession. I would never know whether my classmates paused after I was rendered unconscious. Pretty sure they hadn't. Or, how they got the candy out from under my motionless body.

All I knew was that the battle was waged without me. The floor was cleared and the voice of the school janitor demanded to know how many fingers were being held up. I balanced myself on the second row of bleachers and answered satisfactorily. School officials agreed, my parents needn't be notified.