I Once Kicked a Boy in the Balls, and I Had No Regrets

If I were in the same situation now, I might even do it again

At first, I found the attention flattering.

Like most girls of my generation, I’d been told that when boys were mean to me, I should take it as a compliment. It meant they secretly “liked” me, but they lacked the emotional maturity to express their true feelings. Poor things.

Of course, it was up to us girls to do the emotional labor of interpreting the taunts and insults as unrequited love.

Even though I was a seventh-grader and the two boys who were taunting and insulting me were lowly sixth-graders, they were popular lowly sixth-graders. The fact that they had singled me out, that they had dedicated sequential recess periods to following me around the yard — well, as I said, at first I found it flattering.

The boys, whom I’ll call Jake and Matt, had heard through the grapevine that a friend of a friend had fallen for me — hard. We had met at my friend’s birthday party, then again one Sunday morning when I accompanied her to church. He asked for my phone number, and then, to my horror, proceeded to leave a message on my family answering machine asking if I would like to accompany him to the comic book store.

Luckily, my grandparents were taking care of me that week, which spared me the humiliation of a parental interrogation. My grandma just said, “He sounds like a nice boy.”

He did indeed seem nice. I found the attention flattering, just as I would later find the attention from Jake and Matt flattering, just as I found any and all attention from boys flattering. At 12 years old, I was already using male attention as a barometer by which to measure my own self-worth.

And unlike Jake and Matt, the boy in question actually had the maturity and confidence to openly express his affections.

But truth be told, I wasn’t really all that into him. He had blonde hair and freckles, just like me, which struck me as oddly incestuous. I never did end up accompanying him to the comic book store.

Still, word got around. In our small, insulated middle school, it was a Big Deal that an outside boy, an unknown entity, had asked me on a date. And particularly that of all the girls at the birthday party where we’d met, he had zeroed in on me.

I wasn’t exactly turning many heads, as much as I desperately wanted to. I was short and shy, freckled and flat chested, with a mop of frizzy curls I hadn’t yet figured out how to tame.

Jake and Matt, the lowly but popular sixth graders, found the whole thing simply hilarious.

“Was he stoned?” Matt wanted to know during afternoon recess. “I bet he was stoned. He’d have to be stoned to fall for you.”

“Who’s his dealer?” Jake asked. “Can we get some?”

That my suitor had asked me to go on a date to the comic book store only added fuel to the fire.

“Hey!” Jake called after me during morning recess the next day. “Do you want to go to the drugstore with me?”

“Yeah, or maybe we can shop for groceries together?” Matt added, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

At first, I just rolled my eyes, though I was kind of smiling, too. “Whatever,” I said.

Then, I told them to shut up and get lost, but I did it coyly, a smile still playing at the corners of my lips. I don’t blame them for not taking me seriously.

On the third day, I started to get pissed. I frowned and crinkled my eyebrows to show them I was serious. I told them to stop following me around. They laughed. I told them again. More laughter. My friends told them to quit it, and they kept laughing.

“What are you going to do about it?” they wanted to know.

I told them that if they didn’t get lost, I would kick one or both of them in the balls.

I can’t remember if I actually intended to follow through on this threat, but when the laughter continued to swell and when they continued to tag along behind me, I turned around swiftly and, with all the strength I could muster, drove my right foot directly into Matt’s crotch. I was entirely unfamiliar with male genitalia at the time, but I knew the balls were in that general area.

Apparently, I hit my target. Matt squealed like a pig being slaughtered and collapsed to the ground on his knees. Jake stared at him, open-mouthed.

I wondered if I should feel bad, because I didn’t. I felt vindicated and incredibly powerful. I turned around and marched off, my friends staring back in awe.

I’ve told this story to my children, perhaps more than once, and I’m always quick to point out that I should have gone to a teacher first, because I know that’s what parents are supposed to say. We should have tried to talk it out, I tell them.

But if I’m being honest, I had no regrets about plowing my right foot squarely into Matt’s family jewels. And if he were to follow me around and taunt me now, I’d probably do it again.

Even though I don’t generally condone violence, there is something incredibly alluring about kicking a male aggressor in the balls. His genitals are simultaneously his source of power and his greatest weakness.

I can think of only two other defining moments in my life when I have felt that same thrilling sense of raw strength — when our 8th-grade basketball team beat an undefeated team in the championship game and when I had a natural childbirth after a C-section.

In all three cases, I was, in my own way, challenging someone who believed they were in a dominant position. Someone who was trying to dismiss me. Whether it was mean-spirited sixth grade boys who wouldn’t quit taunting me, or the smug high-scorer on the undefeated team who expected to win, or the condescending doctor who preferred to strap me down and slice me open a second time, I exercised my strength to assert my power and shut them down.

And boy, did it feel good.

That’s why I tell my 10-year-old daughter to always keep a well-aimed ball kick as an option in her back pocket.

Sure, sure, sure, I tell her — try a more diplomatic approach if you can. But, if a male aggressor won’t leave you alone, if all else fails or if there are no other immediate options available, go ahead and kick him in the cojones. As hard as you possibly can.

My daughter wanted to know if I got in trouble for my transgression. I didn’t. Our teachers and parents were none the wiser.

And guess what? After I brought Matt to his knees and shocked the hell out of Jake, both of them left me alone.

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