I received some feedback from one of my readers who didn't quite like some of my stories. He said something about it degrading the vertically challenged or somesuch nonsense. He went on to rant about how I couldn't possibly understand the pain of being a short man in a forest of legs out there in the world of tall folk. You're wrong.
You see, I too have felt the biting agony of having to look up at everything. I was always shorter than the other children. "Stubby Midget Man," they'd call me. "Shorty McShortshort," they'd cry as they pointed at me and laughed in unison. The girls pretended to like me, then laughed in my face, or down towards my head at least. Children can be so cruel.
It went further than just verbal abuse, of course. During gym class the other boys would switch my clothes with normal sized attire. Then they'd all have a good chuckle as I stumbled around and tripped on my pants. They'd chase me around the locker room, chanting their insults. I would try to run, but a shoe would fly off whenever I did. I'd ask to have it back, but they dangled it over my head as if I were their pet dog. They told me to jump for it and beg. I did. I lost my dignity back then. I don't think I ever got it back. However, one incident made it all worth the trouble.
I believe the event happened during the softball unit. I was notorious for my unpredictable playing. Sometimes I won the game, and sometimes I made a brutal mockery of the sport. More often than not, it was the latter. Each time it happened I would be subjected to more torture in the locker room. "You're so short, Stub-Boy," they'd say.
So it went on until the last day of the unit. I tried to avoid having to bat, as the pitcher always threw the ball over my head to further humiliate me. Despite my efforts, the teacher forced me to do it. The atmosphere was tense, my friends. I had to play the best game I'd ever played to preserve the few remaining shreds of my dignity. The ball was thrown. I swung a might blow.
The pitcher shrieked and fell to his knees, his hands cradling his groin. The class ran to his aid, and I stood alone.
Not quite sure how to react, and fearful of the consequences, I began breathing quickly, until I was nearly in convulsions. Then it turned to laughter, a low spastic chuckle that grew into a maniacal shriek. I threw back my head and laughed, holding the bat over my head in victory, as a warning to the others. I had won.
Then the other boys pulled my pants down in front of the entire student body while we were signing yearbooks in the cafeteria. Curses. I remember the wide-eyed stares. The awful cries of "Tighty whities!" in that great hall echo in my ears to this day. The scars remain. Yeah, thanks for the memories. Well, at least that punk got smashed in the genitalia by an errant softball. That'll learn him a thing or two about respect, or at least about wearing proper athletic gear.