When I was in third grade, I excelled as an athlete. For those of you who know me only as an adult, this may be hard to believe. But indeed, I was a master at tether ball. If tetherball were an Olympic sport, I would be the proud owner of a gold medal right now. Truly, I was the tether ball queen.

Yes, I was good at dodgeball and kickball and volleyball, but at tether ball, I ruled. That was my sport. In fact, I was the third-grade champion, beating out all the boys and girls of all the third-grade classes at West Boulevard Elementary School in Columbia, Missouri 1964-65.  (I might add that I was also the tallest kid in my third-grade class, but that information might distract you from admiring the actual talent, skill and strategy I brought to the game.)

Anyway, so addicted was I to the now-lost sport of tether ball that I had my own tether ball: a big, white rubbery orb equipped with a strong white woven rope that I would swing and dangle from my hand as I carried the tetherball around, as if it were a pet.

On weekends and in the summer,  I would go across the street to the playground and practice my game for hours, just me and my tetherball. I loved practicing. I loved hitting the ball over and over. I loved the solitude and the feeling of power as I punched the ball with my fist or swatted it with my open palm. Most of all, I loved serving and watching the ball twirl itself around the pole in one swift move.

One summer day, I was practicing at the tether ball court, dressed in my favorite outfit: a sleeveless white top with an appliquéd sailboat in aquamarine blue and matching blue and white striped shorts. It was special because it was store bought, not hand made.

I was just leaving the playground when two older boys approached me. I didn’t know them, but I thought they were fifth graders. They came up, said nothing and tried to grab my tether ball. I hung on tight and kicked at them. Then they knocked me to the ground, and pulled my shorts down.

Then they tried to pull down my white cotton panties, but I fought them off with my tether ball, beating it over their heads and screaming at them. I was terrified and infuriated and in shock. They kept trying to pin me down, but I kept shouting and beating them with my tetherball. There was no one around to hear me. Finally, they just left and took off.

When they were out of sight, I got up off the ground, pulled up my shorts, and ran home, hanging on to my tetherball for dear life.

When I got home, I said nothing to my mother or sister, I just went straight upstairs to my room. I cleaned up the scrapes on my knees and bruises. Then I took off my favorite outfit and put something else on.

That was the last time I wore my favorite outfit. And the last time I ever practiced tetherball solo. My mother asked me why I stopped wearing my favorite shorts and top, and instead of telling her why, I made up some excuse. After that, every time I passed the spot where the attack took place, near the swings and monkey bars, I would remember and feel sad and uneasy, like someone had died on that spot.

I really can’t explain why I didn’t say anything, or why I kept the story to myself. I was deeply ashamed, as if I had done something wrong. I was humiliated. I felt wordlessly that my power had been stripped away and I’d been exposed as vulnerable. I just didn’t want to share that with anyone. Maybe I just didn’t want to acknowledge what had happened by sharing it with my mother or a friend, so I kept it a secret. That way, it was almost as if it hadn’t happened.

But it did happen, and I still remember it. And I hope those boys got what they deserved someday. Because I’m still mad. If they showed up today as men, I would gladly beat them over the head with a tetherball.