Red Rover, Red Rover . . . I'm going to wrip your still-beating heart out of your chest.

This past Saturday, we celebrated winter with the Yukigassen - a highly organized and competitive snowball fight that closely resembles Capture the Flag. Unfortunately for the Yukigassen, our area is sadly lacking in yuki (snow). It's not much of a gassen without it, but we soldiered on and did the next best thing; played at Yukigassen in the school gym wearing helmets and pelting each other with bean-bags.

Our men's team was the first up. There were gasps of awe from around the gym as they strode onto the court. All seven were over six feet tall and dwarfed the opposing Japanese team who had two women that would be lucky to see five feet. But the Japanese team wasn't afraid! They were quick and wiry, sliding behind the barriers and revealing throwing arms that were honed in hours of after school club activities. One by one, our men fell and they limped off the court nursing their bean-bag wounds. This was not looking good for the women.

Luke looking very bummed after getting out.

"I hope we play that team!" Travy said, pointing across the gym at a group of middle-aged women wearing matching sweatshirts.

"Oh, no you don't," Tanya replied. "Those are the defending champions. They practice for two months before the tournament and play in Hokkaido every year."

"Right. Nevermind," said Travy and we watched in silence as the team jogged onto the court and stripped off their sweatshirts to reveal matching jerseys and elbow pads. It was a bloodbath for their opponent. Tension was running high among our group.

Finally, it was time for us to take the court. I nervously buckled my helmet and adjusted the chin strap, shaking out my tense limbs as we lined up on the center line. The referees checked our shoes for spikes (spikes?!). We said, "Onegaishimasu." We shook hands with our opponents. And then it was time for the game to begin.

On the whistle, we sprinted off the starting line with our bean-bags in hands. I ran straight for the barrier that marked the center line; the perfect position to pick off my prey. The only problem was that my throwing arm seemed to be a little rusty. Whenever I'd wind up and release, the bean-bag would end up about three feet ahead of where I was standing. Oops! But then, I aimed at their machine-gunner who had been destroying our defensive line with fast and accurate bean-bags. My bag hit her in the side of the helmet with a satisfying 'smack'. "Out-O!" the judge yelled. Success!

From the defensive line, Carly yelled the numbers of the opposing team and, in unison, we would direct all of our ammunition on that girl. We were running low on bean-bags and accuracy was the key. "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Number 2 right over!" Carly screamed from behind a barrier.

"Red Rover, Red Rover . . . I'm going to wrip your still-beating heart out of your chest!" I was overcome with bloodlust and a desire to hold the opposing team's flag in my shaking hands. It was time for our top secret attack plan - Operation Kamakazi.

I darted from behind the barrier and ran at a diagonal angle across the floor. I was on the other team's turf now and they turned all of their attention on me. The scene is burned on my brain in slow-motion; I dodged bean-bags and screaming girls, ran around a barrier (the flag was in my sight!), and was almost free and clear. I was almost touching the flag. It was almost mine! I could hear the guy's from the sidelines yelling encouragement, but all I could think about was slapping the other team across their faces - with their own flag. Only two steps remained and no one was in my path. One (only one step remaining). Two (I was there). As my fingers were closing around the flag shaft, I felt a ping in the small of my back. I looked over my shoulder and there it was. The bean bag.

"Out-O!" the referee yelled and I dejectedly jogged off the field, my competitiveness throbbing like an opens sore on my chest.

Our team, looking fierce.