Out of Bounds
Look, I didn’t start the fight on purpose. I don’t even like fighting. Violence has never been my answer or what I was taught growing up. Running is always the best option. Avoid conflict. I couldn’t agree more.
But…what if running doesn’t work? Where you don’t have the privilege of picking when you have to survive?
My name is Julie Khan.
I’m sixteen years old. If you asked me a few months ago what my favorite thing in the world was, the answer was already on my lips. ‘Basketball’ I would say with my signature lisp.
Did that make me easy to pick on? Absolutely.
I was a chubby kid growing up. During the youth basketball league, I was dubbed “Dumpling Defense”. The nickname stuck. I was an overweight Cali girl who was just too tired to run across half court from defense to offense. One of the boys once told me how I was shaped like a ball with ankles and feet attached to it. That lit a fire under me.
I didn’t quit because I still loved the sport. I was never giving up on basketball. The greats had put their time in for countless hours when no one was watching, I would be no exception. I was stuck with the team for the whole season, I had to put in my best effort even if it didn’t give me the results I always wanted.
Things were fine that summer until the last day of June, a Sunday. I was playing pickup basketball on the courts after service. Our church was ideal for extra practice on different courts. I squeezed in any hours I could to drill my form.
The heat was uncomfortable. The Pastor tugged at his dress shirt’s collar to cool off. One boy’s shirt was already soaked in sweat front-to-back.
Among the eight players, Hannah On and her father were the only opponents that mattered.
If there was anyone who loved basketball more than me, it was Hannah and her family. When I visited their house, the basketball court in the backyard looked brand new. There were no uneven cracks in the ground and clean white lines created distinct boundaries. When I eagerly asked Hannah if I could try shooting, she offered me her basketball to borrow: a leather Spalding she had received for her birthday.
Hannah and I were best friends at the time. I had invited her when I first started attending the service as a form of outreach. She began to fit in faster than I did. Her easy temper, charismatic voice, and athleticism made her popular among the boys and girls. We hadn’t hung out for weeks and only saw each other on Sunday, but on the basketball courts she had to pay attention to me.
Mr. On was on the other team with Hannah. He was Hannah’s father, at least six feet tall with slim shoulders and limbs. His long shadow followed him as he loomed towards the basketball net.
We began to play. A pass to the right. A crossover, then step-back fade away as Hannah scored.
As we reset, I decided to get more physical.
I used my body to block a path for my teammate guarded by Mr. On. I bent my knees to brace for impact.
When Mr. On came at my screen, he fell to his back. I turned to get ready for the next play.
“You tripped me. You know, you don’t have to play dirty,” Mr. On said.
How silly. I turned around.
“Excuse me? I don’t have to play dirty to beat you guys,” I said as I raised my eyebrows.
“I’m just saying you don’t have to play dirty,” the angry man repeated, his tone rising.
Then, my best friend’s father made a motion for me to come closer. I shook off the impulse to walk away. Mr. On blocked the rest of the crowd out with his body. The sensation of his fingers on my body froze me. A slow, creeping horror crawled up my spine as I realized: he had just groped me.
“Why did you do that?” I blurted, my voice trembling.
“Don’t talk back to me, you’re the one who tripped me. ” Mr. On thundered.
The ball was in my hands before I knew it. I threw it, hard, at his back. My heart was in my throat, but my voice was steady as I spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Are you some kind of pedophile? At church?”
No one moved. They all watched.
Mr. On inspected the ball and tossed it to my feet, like he was flicking dirt from his shoe.
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Mr. On smirked. “Just a girl.”
I stopped listening to common sense. The basketball rolled away and I hastily picked it up. I called Mr. On out for a one-on-one.
I had Mr. On’s attention now. His face was nearly purple as he loomed over me. My blood was boiling with righteous fury.
I faked to my right and sprinted to the hoop. Mr. On used his height. He swatted the shot mid-air, the echo reverberating like a clap of thunder.
Reset. I managed to rip the ball from his arms. I tugged, wrenching the basketball free with all my might. His grip loosened. Victory was mine.
In the motion of passing to my teammates, I turned. However, my teammate’s eyes were wide. They seemed to be looking not at me but behind me.
I felt it before I saw it.
A hand grabbed at my waist. My body lifted off the ground. My heart shot up to my throat. The horizon shifted as I crashed to the concrete, pain shooting up my spine. The dusty air of the churchyard was like a haze around me.
I am in danger.
I would like to say that I looked cooler for my first fight ever, but all I managed was to pinch my ankles around his neck as we tumbled and wrestled on the concrete.
That brief exchange felt like forever, but it was enough for one of the people watching to pull Mr. On off. My own father had come to my rescue. I looked around at all the people watching.
Hannah was nowhere to be seen and Mr. On hung his head with his hand covering his face. A crowd had begun to gather as the church elders whispered among themselves with their hands covering their lips.
“You better watch your back,” I hissed at him as my dad pushed me towards the car home.
I felt the adrenaline dump wear off. My limbs were suddenly heavy from their unconscious tension. I immediately broke down crying. I thought about how I could have prevented the situation in a million ways. I had never thought someone I knew would assault me, much less my best friend’s father. My head spun. I was rolling the car window down for air as Father slammed his driver side door shut.
The ride home was quiet. I couldn’t think of much to say to my dad immediately. When I finally gathered my thoughts, I spoke hesitantly.
“I was so scared. I didn’t mean to do anything. If you didn’t pull him off...” I trailed off mid-sentence.
Father didn’t reply at first. He rubbed at his neck.
It took me a while to piece it together. This wasn’t about me. My father was embarrassed. My brazen callout. The attention I drew to our family at church. The On family, his friends, would now see me as the troublemaker.
“Why did you have to do that?” Father shook his head.
“What?” I stared at him in disbelief.
“You will apologize to Mr. On next time we see him,” he said flatly.
I couldn’t breathe.
I had no appetite during dinner after Father and I discussed with Mother what had transpired. She took one look at Father and they mutually nodded. As they asked me for what really went down, I looked to their disappointed eyes to see that nothing I said would win them over.
All could be forgiven and washed away with time, maybe I was just too young to understand my parents’ reassurance. Mother had already called Mrs. On, tomorrow morning we were to patch things up.
A hollow pain began to grow in my chest.
I excused myself to my room, locking the door. I couldn’t contain my frustration anymore as I scattered my torn clothing on the floor. The tackle had left a nasty gash on the side of my left leg. I was too tired to care about disinfecting the wound though. My favorite pair of leggings was now a reminder of the worst day in my life.
Why didn’t anyone protect me?
I thought back to the fight. If I marched up to Goliath tomorrow and challenged him, I somehow doubted that I would be able to do much. I shuddered as I imagined him dragging me to the floor again while I laid there flailing. I would apologize tomorrow.
And what about the next time something happens? I didn’t have an answer for that. I still felt hot with anger and fear, tangling my stomach in knots.
The next morning, Mr. On came to our house. Alone.
I was almost unsure that he was the same person. His disposition was meek and his handshake gentle as he apologized with a bow of his head. I couldn’t let go of his hand more quickly. The visit was brief and Mr. On excused himself. I wasn’t sure if he really cared about whether my apology was genuine or not. I had no choice in any of this.
I stared at the figure in the distance. I felt drunk on poison.
