Frankly, I don’t throw a snowball very often these days. Occasionally I might toss a mischievous handful at Richard in the driveway. I do remember though, back when I was first aware that a good snowball is a weapon. I’ll never forget what happened:

I was in the fourth grade. In the winter we couldn’t wait to blast out of school and race home for snow play. My classmate, Nancy, and I built a tall snow fort behind the front yard low hedge. It was a fun place to snuggle out of the wind and we kept fortifying and smoothing its sides with each new snowfall. We dug out peep holes so we could squat and still see the sidewalk traffic on the other side of the hedge.

We replenished our two large stacks of perfect snowballs every afternoon. Standing up in the fort, we practiced lobbing them at trees and telephone poles, occasionally hitting car doors. We knew better than to target a windshield. We did not, however, know better when it came to choosing our sidewalk victims. That’s the reason I have never forgotten my relationship with the perfect snowball.

I lived only a block from the high school. We decided our target victims would be the raucous girls basketball team we watched pass by after practice. The first day, the loudest, toughest girl called us “little brats” as she passed on the sidewalk. I hated her instantly. We knew her varsity letter jacket was a big deal. But she said damn and hell a lot, and she smoked. She was obviously a bad person. We were the well-equipped brave duo to bring her down a peg or two.

What were we thinking? On the first attempt at moral justice, my throw missed. She shot me a dirty look. The next day, still nervous when I stood up in the fort, I had the same late timing. But the snowball did hit her, THUNK, in the middle of her back.

She turned, sneered and yelled, “you nasty little creep!” I was thrilled. She was mad. Good. That was the goal. Nobody had ever told me to be careful what you wish for.

The following week I said to Nancy maybe she has forgotten about us. Then, through the peep hole, I saw my nemesis and her buddies at the corner. Five of them in varsity jackets, laughing rowdily, walked slowly towards our battle station. I had time to select the best snowballs, one for each hand. No late throws this time.

My heart pounding inside my snowsuit, I waited until her gang approached our fort. She was still in front when I bolted upright and fired the snowball at her head. I hit her – POW! – on the cheek, splattering snow all over her face and hair. She whipped one hand up to clear her face, shrieking loudly as she threw her books to the sidewalk. She leapt over the hedge screaming obscenities. I was so thrilled with my direct hit that it took me a few seconds to realize that the enemy was attacking and I was standing still.

I turned to run, but in the deep snow, my lumpy snowsuit and boots were not exactly racing gear. The snow that was up to my 9-year-old knees was only partially up her 16-year-old shins. Cowering Nancy watched helplessly.

I barely made it to the backyard before the furious bruiser was on me, screaming, punching, jamming my face into the snow and forcibly thrashing it back and forth until I was gasping. “If you ever do that again it will be the last snowball you ever throw, you little sh**.” She pounded on me for an eternity and buried me under as much snow as she could heap on me. Then it got quiet.

Dumbfounded, I lay there for a few minutes, finally hearing Nancy calling my name as she dug me out. The greatest injury was my bruised pride. Dragging myself back to the snow fort, I spotted a few flyaway papers from the books she had thrown. There was a history exam with a big red C-minus near her name, Dotty.

The swelling on my right cheek was gone by the time the neighborhood boys claimed the fort a week later. For a few years afterwards, I checked every group of older teenagers I saw in town, terrified of running into her ever again.

The trouncing Dotty delivered that day served a purpose as I grew. I learned that fighting solves nothing – but when you’re in trouble always have a huge guy named Vinny on your team instead of a 59-pound flea-weight named Nancy.

Oh, and no problem in life has ever been solved with a well-aimed snowball.

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