When I came to prison in 2008, I was stressed by the new environment. For one, the prison recreation yard was filled with prison gangs. 

But the yard also held my prison’s handball court. 

I had played handball before, while awaiting sentencing in the county jail. My old cellmate at the jail did vigorous workouts in our cell each day and invited me to play handball with him. So when I arrived at my California prison, I made my way — past the intimidating gangs — to the handball court to play for fun and relieve stress.  

I was overweight at the time, and not very athletic. I felt insecure. But the game of handball has changed my life. From it, I have cultivated fortitude, athleticism and spirit. I also have lowered my blood pressure and lost 40 pounds. I now have greater self-confidence. 

U.S. handball, which is sometimes referred to as wall ball, is not to be confused with the European form of handball, where more than a dozen players are on the court, passing a ball around, trying to score a goal, similar to hockey or soccer. 

The handball we play in prison is a simple and swift game. You are constantly shifting and dashing toward the snappy, petite ball to strike it with an open hand and hit it inside a wide rectangle on a wall. When the ball bounces back from the wall to the concrete, your opponent has a chance to return your shot. You win a rally when one player is unable to return your shot. It’s a high-cardio game, and stamina and brisk reflexes are essential.

Handball has become popular inside U.S. prisons because of the sport’s simplicity, according to a Vice News article from 2015. “Outside of New York City, where handball is commonly played in parks, and aside from a few tournaments … the sport is relegated to the margins,” the now-defunct news organization reported. “Prison itself is a margin.”  

When I play handball, I make up for my athletic deficiencies by utilizing great hitting power. Most people hit the handball openhanded, like a slap. But I have developed a style of smacking the handball with a closed fist. Many players don’t like to hit like this because it hurts, but I hit the ball closefisted because it makes the ball travel so fast that opponents have a difficult time responding. I also hate losing, so I always play my hardest.

There are about 40 regulars who play at my prison. On weekends, players from another part of the prison come over to play in my unit’s recreation yard. All four handball courts are consistently occupied, some with singles matches and some with doubles matches. Onlookers cheer and clap, occasionally exclaiming over an impressive diving shot. The blue ball flies through the air and you can hear ear-splitting pops when players smack powershots off the wall.

I enjoy playing handball in the pleasant California weather. And I’m always stoked when I’m on the court with my chief rivals: Poncho, Leo, Preacher and Israel. 

Poncho wears a custom-fitted black glove that allows him to hit the ball with greater force. Leo impresses me with how consistently he hits the ball; but when things are not going his way, he throws tantrums. Preacher is an older man, about 5-foot-9 like myself but huskier; he relies on low, effective kill shots. Israel is tall and slim, the champion of our rec yard; he possesses power, speed and high intellect — I have only beaten him twice.

In one blistering match, I competed with a 22-year-old man who was half my age and closer to his athletic prime. The thin youngster had a swaying, assured stroll. In the course of our first game, he eyed me with a squint and shouted to me with my handball nickname: “Championship, give me your all!” 

Like two roaring gladiators, we battled for victory with all our will and pride. I utilized my signature fist shot for power and mixed in low-corner kill shots that are hard to volley back. The youngster used strength to smash the ball hard and high off the wall. And he varied in sharp angle shots. Nearly all of his shots were consistent and he had great speed to track down many of my best shots. After the first six games, my gray tank top was drenched in sweat. I was huffing and puffing. 

After 12 games, we were tied. In an intense winner-takes-all game, he beat me on a flurry of ferocious high-corner shots to the wall. My knees practically wilted from exhaustion. Sweat dripped from my body to the pavement. We embraced.