The Spitting Contest

The Spitting Contest


There were four boys in our family. Jim was the oldest, and usually the most responsible. John was four years younger, and I followed, the typical middle child (a surprise pregnancy, and only 15 months younger than John), and the “baby” brother Phil who was four years younger than me. Phil was the last because, I believe, my parents gave up trying to have a girl after this.

Dad was a minister. We often would visit another family in the church on Sunday after church for lunch.

We must have pretty well behaved on these excursions, because Mom would almost always remark that, “I am so proud of you boys, everyone said that you were good.” It always made us feel terrific, and it really set us up to continue to be “good” on the next visit to their friends.

After lunch, we would usually be sent outside to play while the parents talked inside the house. This was a time where there were no video games, there was usually one T.V. in the house, and that was the owner’s province so it was off limits for us to operate. We usually had to make up some kind of game to play. Hide and seek was a favorite, but we often would just invent other things to do, and many times we would create contests amongst ourselves.

On one such visit, it was a beautiful summer day we were running around outside and my brother John thought it might be fun to have a spitting contest, between the two of us. The game started off in a fairly predictable manner, where we would both stand behind a predetermined line and spit for distance. John was more athletic, in just about everything, and would usually win these endeavors.

The next game was an accuracy exercise that didn’t involve “hurling” the spit a long way. We would stand equidistant from an object and merely try to be the first one to hit the thing.

Before long we both became the object of this spitting exercise, and we began spitting at each other. Who could throw the best “hocker” and actually land it on the other person. To add to the adventure we included running to this game. It was gross enough to be spit at, but you had a good chance to have this “stuff” miss you if you were a constant, moving target.

At one point I was outdueling my bigger brother. To avoid me he started to climb a tree. I began to follow. I opened my mouth to let one fly, and just about that time John turned to face me and launched a good one right into my open mouth. Without realizing it my brother had just created the equivalent to the "grand slam" in baseball, and the "hole-in-one" in golf rolled into one.  This was, undoubtedly, the "big kahuna" of spitball-dom.

My mind began to swirl. No amount of spitting or coughing this disgusting, proteinaceous material from my mouth seemed to rid me of the thought of what actually happened. The more I thought about it, the sicker I became. I started uttering some guttural thing like, “Oh-h-h-h, oh-h-h-h, oh-h-h-h”, and all the while my brother was howling with laughter.

I disappeared from around the corner of the house, found some bush and threw up. I don't think I ever challenged him again in this venue, because John had established himself as a the spitball ace, and  undisputed victor.