The Most Dangerous Game

I don't care what they say. Tag is not innocent.

Of course, it was awesome if you were chosen to be "Buffalo Bill" or "Buffalo Jill" in second grade gym class. I'm not sure how this version of tag differed from any other, besides that the tagged had to sit "Indian-style" (a very politically correct game, indeed) on the hardwood floor.

But if you were that lucky cowboy or cowgirl, you had all the power. Everyone skirted away from you in terror, shrieking and contorting their bodies as if the stretch of your hand made their skin curve away. With gleefully sadistic grins, you bounded all over the gymnasium. Sneakers squealed in protest.

At first, victims were defeated in swarms. Reach your hand into a group and you were bound to get at least two people.

But those still free knew how to dodge you. They darted around corners and sacrificed their friends to keep themselves safe. Two would bond together. As you approached them, they split and ran around you. It was up to you to catch the slowest.

And the last man standing was the only one who could turn your power against you. That cocky boy with the skinny legs evaded you again and again. Sweat glistened on both of your faces. The initial adrenaline turned to frustration. It was mind games now. He had you wondering where he'd bolt next. He could saunter and then sprint away as you approached.

Unless he did something stupid, you would never catch him.

Now the kids sitting Indian-style were rooting against you. Even your best friend hoped for your demise. They cheered him on every time he missed your once-potent tag.

Sometimes the teacher would finally intervene after this one-on-one had stretched on for a long while. Some of the tagged kids were getting antsy. "Okay, good job! Let's play again!" The teacher clapped and picked some other student to be "It." And you were relegated to being one of the herd.

But other times, even the teacher stood back to watch the battle.

You started to wish you'd never had this responsibility. Yet would it have better to been merely one of "them," running away in fear? Or to be feared and risk falling short of that image of invincibility?

Maybe time would run out before you fell short.

Your shoelaces flapped around your feet. Your shirt hung about you like a damp flag. Whatever intimidation you once inspired had certainly evaporated.

Wasn't this what you wanted?

Eventually, it ended. The other kid, becoming overconfident, made a mishap. Or perhaps he secretly felt bad for you. Either way, skin touched sweaty skin, and like that, it was all over.

As everyone surged back to their feet, you lingered by the water fountain. You weren't dehydrated enough to not smile faintly at your victory. Because while the game lasted, you had been someone. Someone frightening. Someone fast.

Someone dangerous.