When you’re in 9^th grade, you’re afraid of a lot of things: voice crackage, pretty girls, body odor at inopportune times, etc. But as a freshman in high school, one thing terrified me above all others.

Wedgies.

I joined my high school’s soccer team because I liked the idea of sports. My talent ensured that I would never see the field, but my age allowed me to participate in one very special tradition.

The initiation ceremonies always occurred while returning from away games. Somewhere around Medina, Ohio, one lucky freshman would hear his name chanted from the back of the bus. If the freshman did not immediately get up and report to the seniors, he would be in Big Trouble and should probably never enter a locker room again for the rest of his life.

Once he reached the back of the bus, the freshman would get mobbed by upper classmen who would start yanking his underwear. In the front of the bus, the rest of the freshman would silently face forward, listening to the cheering, the screaming and finally the rrrrrrrrRRRRRRRIP of a waistband being torn free from a pair of tighty whiteys.

The newly welcomed member of the team would stumble back to his seat holding his waistband like the world’s saddest trophy, while his classmates would start praying that the coaches would recover from their unexplained temporary deafness, notice the Welcome Wedgies and stop the tradition before their turn came.

Nobody stopped the wedgies.

I have never really understood the thrill that comes from pulling another person’s underpants over his head until it rips, but apparently I am in the minority because every upper classman I’ve known has LOVED it. One year, the seniors gave a freshman so many atomic wedgies that the kid’s mom finally went to the school office to let them know that her son was running out of underwear and would they know anything about that? I knew my time was coming.

I have never really understood the thrill that comes from pulling another person’s underpants over his head until it rips.

Every away game day, I would try to pick out a pair of briefs that would tear easily but not so easily that the seniors would suspect I’d pre-ripped them (That would have gotten me into Big Trouble). When the chanting would start, I’d get real still. I’d start sweating. Sometimes, I’d venture a peek behind me but turn right back around when I’d see another human being lifted in the air by his underwear. After the rrrrrrRRRRRRRIP and cheer, I’d prepare myself for the inevitable “DUS-TIN! DUS-TIN!”

But it wouldn’t come. With each passing game, I grew more nervous. By the last game of the season, I was a wreck. But the chants never came. I made it. I had never felt so blessed.

Fall turned to winter, which turned to baseball season, which brought more away games and dark busses and atomic wedgies. Still, I didn’t get the call. Then, while heading to the second-to-last practice of the season, it happened.

“Hey coach!” the seniors called from the back of the bus. “Can the freshmen do the catcher drill tomorrow?”

“Hmmmmm, I don’t know,” Coach Jones said.

“CATCHER DRILL! CATCHER DRILL!” The back of the bus started chanting louder and louder. “CATCH-ER-DRILL! CATCH-ER-DRILL! CATCH-ER-DRILL!”

“OK, OK, we’ll do it at the end of practice.”

“WOOOOOOOO!” The cheer sounded almost exactly like the one that would erupt after a successful wedgie.

Nobody would tell us what exactly the catcher drill was, but all indications pointed to it being extremely unpleasant. Teammates would look at us and cackle. Coaches would avoid eye contact. Seniors told us we’d better be at practice the next day OR ELSE.

The next day, we ended practice early and headed back to the school. Once we were all inside the gym, the coaches closed the doors, which seemed like something you would not do if you were cool with your boss seeing what you were about to do.

Then Coach Jones started explaining.

“One of the toughest plays in sports is a home plate collision,” he said. “The day a catcher experiences his first collision at the plate is the day he becomes a man. Today, the freshmen will become men.”

Coach Jones went on to explain that each freshman would get a turn at the plate. After we put on a catcher’s helmet, two upper classmen would hold us in place while a senior would get a 90-foot running start and smash into us, turning us into men.

To be clear, Coach Jones was suggesting we do this:

WAY worse than a wedgie.

Before anyone could protest, we got locked in the equipment room. After a minute, a senior came in, summoned his first victim and locked the door behind him. We sat and waited.

You could hear the anticipation building outside, like the Coliseum waiting for the lions to be released. Then “oooohhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

SMASH

The Coliseum erupted.

“OH!!!!!!”

Then: “Quick get ice from the kitchen!”

Someone sprinted past the equipment room. I turned white.

The cycle repeated itself over and over – SMASH “OH!” SMASH “OH!” SMASH “OH!” – until there were only a handful of us left.

Then I was up. I walked out of the equipment room past my classmates sitting against the bleachers. Some were holding ice on their heads. One was holding a bloody cloth.

I put on the catcher’s mask. Well, you never know, it might not be too bad. Maybe I’d get a smaller guy. Someone like…

I looked up to see Jake Brenenstuhl, the scariest guy on the team.

“You’re mine, Dustin!” he yelled. “You’re gonna be a MAN today!”

So much for that.

Two guys grabbed my arms and the room started buzzing.

“oooooohhhhhhh”

Jake took off.

“OHHHHHHHH”

I wondered how the coaches could let this happen.

“OHHHHHHH”

I closed my eyes.

Then, right before impact, I felt myself yanked to the right. Jake slammed his shoulder into the bleachers behind me…

SMASH

…and the whole team erupted.

“OH!”

Before I could figure out what had happened, someone sat me down and put a cloth filled with fake blood over my eye. Coach Jones walked over to me and winked.

I was a man. I was part of the team. And the best part: my underwear was still intact.

A little wet, but definitely intact.

LIFE LESSON #60

The only thing worse than a wedgie is the wait for the wedgie.