A beautiful morning finally erupted onto the playground at eleven forty-five when three sets of doors were flung open and a small population of children swarmed the field.

Jimmy saw Roger playing with a ball - his ball -- his red ball - and then saw the three girls fawning over the expertise with which the ball was being handled. "Well," he thought, "we'll see who is the correct owner of my ball."

He strode to where Roger was bouncing. "Roger!" Many pointed fingers and turned heads. "That ball is not yours."

The ball settled to the ground. "Who's to say?" Roger countered.

"The ball itself," pointing to the ball on the ground, which had rolled itself to display Jimmy's full name in black permanent marker written on its bumpy surface. The girls around Roger gasped at the implications.

Roger saw this, and acted as if to say "I saw the name; I just chose to ignore it because I'm too 'cool' for such subtleties." What he did say was "Yeah? So?" Jimmy now stood within five paces of Roger. "I'm calling you out!"

"You and what army?"

"This army!" A platoon of fourth graders broke from their places on the field and formed ranks behind Jimmy. Three of the more muscular children stood clumped around Jimmy, acting as a human wall.

"Sooweee! Kakada, Ghanima beyt!" Roger screamed, and two wings of fifth graders flanked him, curving out and toward the oppositoin. The girls that had pined for Roger's affection formed the guard wall for him.

"Charge!" Jimmy commanded.

"Tak: ah dah!" Roger shouted.

It was a gruesome playground brawl, lasting seconds. Before it was finished, though, twenty were killed, thirty-two more injured, and the ball it was being fought over pierced and deflated due to a miscalculated thrust of a lance. Soon the bell tolled, and those still walking were ushered inside.

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