It's the money shot: Pwyang! goes the rubber ball into the guy's crotch and he hits the ground hard. Everybody in the spacious backyard laughs, until the wounded man stays down, crying tears of pain. Our referee leaps into action, screaming "Medic!" Someone who may or may not be medically trained runs over and shouts: "We need ice! Stat!" An entire bag of ice gets pulled out of the beer cooler and applied to the dented bait and tackle, and the victim gets pulled to the sidelines: Dodge ball must go on.

"Beer in hand!" shouts the ref, and everyone plays dodge ball while holding a can of Coors Light. My Plus One turns out to be incredibly adept at the dodging part of the game, but her weak throwing arm proves a one-way ticket to elimination. Women are shoving cans of beer into their pants and singing "I'm a Little Teapot" while pouring beer into reclining men's mouths. It's the kind of afternoon where the AC/DC is blaring and everyone laughs when a piece of inflated rubber traveling at 60 miles an hour hits someone in the face: in other words, paradise.

After six hours of drinking and grade-school-style sports, though, a change of tack becomes necessary: Everyone heads inside to watch a Bad Dance-Off, set to "Brass Monkey" and "Beat It." Limbs are flying and dancers flail each other with wooden spoons, and—holy shit—it's not even sundown yet. Clearly, dodge ball, unlike those other sissy sports, is all about giving 110 percent.

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