Childhood Memory: Kickball and One Moment of Fleeting Fame

I was one of those kids in primary school who just really sucked at sports. 

Usually the intro to my blogs are a bit longer (sure you can say long winded even) with way more detail but there's no better nor apt way that I can possibly express my dislike for organized sports as a youth than the first line I wrote above.  And it wasn't that I just disliked sports, it equally disliked me.  We were not friends at all.

Our rivalry started when I was but a small chubby legged toddler and I couldn't...okay wait, no I don't remember back that far so let's fast forward.  As a kid around the age of 8 or so, I was actually quite the tomboy.  And because I had a Big Bro whom I looked up to. I wanted to do everything he did but the problem was he was (is) 2 years older than me which didn't translate into many things I could actually do that he could.  But I didn't let that stop me, oh no, not tenacious stubborn little me.  I followed him around a lot, much to his horror and annoyance, feeling as if with enough persistence I would win over his admiration.  Um right, which little sister ever really accomplished this with their elder brother short of paying them off?  So now you know my success rate.

I was also sorta scrawny (go figure right?), all arms and legs.  I also, at that time, had a hate relationship with food hence I barely ever consumed any much to my mothers yelling/threats/warnings.  She also couldn't bribe me into wearing frilly dresses and tights (which I think I've explained in an earlier blog) but boy did I jump into shorts and jeans.  And those didn't last long because 9 times out of 10 I'd come home with at least some article of clothing ripped up or with holes in them.  Yes, this was not well received by my mother who was tired of replacing.  Then there was the 'dirt' aspect.  It seemed as if back then I just attracted dirt even when I was 'innocently' sitting doing nothing.  Lol...(yes I lol'ed)...my mother once told me, 'even when you're doing nothing, I know you're up to no good, probably thinking up the next bad thing you can do that will get you into trouble'.  She sure knew her daughter well.

So back then though I was all about running faster than the boys, climbing higher than the boys, jumping further than the boys and throwing at speeds that the boys would be envious about.  I'd come home with cuts and bruises from my failed attempts and my mother, as she put stingy horrible medicine on the war wounds, would warn me not to play with said boys again or she'd give me worse bruises.  Did I listen?  Of course not!  That would be far too rationale.  Like clockwork I'd be out there the next day trying to out-do some snot nosed kid who I knew I could best.

I'm not sure though when I started to lose interest in all that running and stuff but before I knew it I was not so gangly and so very not keen on breaking into a sweat.  Mind you, I was also not down with wearing dresses, fawning over boys nor gawking at posters of boy bands.  I just had by then accepted that me and anything athletic didn't go hand in hand.  When gym became the most hated class in my young life I can't pinpoint but I think to this day that my gym teachers had at one point or another wished that they didn't have to deal with me. 

I was no star athlete by any stretch of the imagination and yours truly was that kid who was picked last for every team, all the time.  No, don't say 'aww, that's so sad' because in reality it wasn't.  If you had me on your team, you were guaranteed to lose so rather then feeling bad for myself, I felt bad for those individuals who were stuck with me.  Naturally I had those true blue buddies who were all about showing me love and support, who would always pick me.  Fools!  And I think my utter laziness made them a tad lazy too.  I mean no one really expected any team that I was apart of to win.

Now this blog wasn't spurred on from nothingness, something triggered it of course (something always triggers my writing) and let me tell you what it was.  So a few days ago I'm flopped in front of the tv watching something nonsensical, not really paying attention because I'm sort of a habitual multi-tasker which meant I was also busy playing some word game on my handheld.  A commercial comes on, don't ask me to tell you what it was for or what it was about, but there was a scene of 2 children waiting to be chosen for a game of dodge ball and as soon as the last kid was picked, a little bony boy was left standing there all alone in his sad white long knee-length shorts and matching white-wife beater top with big ol' horned-rimmed glasses and shaggy hair looking pathetic and woeful. Within a second a shower of balls comes and starts walloping the kid as he...well he dodges and ducks and covers his ginormous head in the effort to save himself.

This is what triggered a memory of mine although not the same, it was the balls that made me remember:

It was a rainy day at school, I was in...7th grade...and we were stuck in the gym.  It was announced that we would be sharing the gymnasium with the boys (which went over well with the other girls but I wanted to puke because I really, really didn't want it to be known by the opposite gender how un-athletic I was).  The two coaches, girls and boys, had come up with the fantastic idea of having a game of kickball...remember that silly game (or is it a sport? You tell me)?  Well the same ball used for dodge ball was also often used for kickball...lemme show you in case you don't remember:



Ok now that some of you have done a "oh yea" and a few of you have done a "wtf is that?" let's move on.  Yea these lovely red muted soft things.  They didn't hurt you if you got whacked by one but stung just enough to leave a red mark.  I hated those things and the 'pong pong' sounded they made.

The teams were mixed, meaning boys playing with girls (hehe...that sounded so wrong) (get your mind outta the gutter) and luckily we were just assigned numbers (count off 1, 2) in order to determine who would be on whose team.  I always preferred this method since it made you feel much less like a loser.  The trick was to ignore the groans of frustration when the others realized that they were stuck with you because of mathematics.  My team was up first to um...kick...and I do admit that I did an okay enough job when it was my turn at least to a point where I didn't want to die and fall through the slippery gym floor.  However yes, later at one point I did let a ball slip right through my grasp (I mean literally) stumbled after it, tried to tackle it but missed completely and gave plenty of 7th graders a reason to laugh.  Well my dignity would not be bruised so I turned my noses up at them and decided to ignore the barbs flung my way.

The consequence of that one small mistake?  When the other team was 'kicking', and we were 'out on the field' I was relegated to the furthest corner of the gym, my back practically pressed into the compressed bleachers.  I mean honestly even if I yelled no one would have heard, that's how far I was banished by my teammates.  And since I was very much in never never land, I had not much to do so I stood around gazing at my nails, picking off the remnants of polish.  I would glance up every once in a while just to look as if I was even remotely interested (which to be truthful I was not), at times stifling a yawn or two, and even postured a bit, legs bent and akimbo, arms stretched out looking for all intent and purposes as if I was actually hoping a ball would come zipping my way so that I could catch it.  Yea right!

Unlike myself though, the others had been playing a pretty good game and by the end we were tied.  I wish I knew baseball lingo well enough to retell this part aptly but I'm not that cool so I'll stumble through as best as possible.  The bases were all loaded, 2 out...okay no, I won't even bother.  Anyhoo...yea the other side needed literally one more run and they would win.  My team members were all hunkering down, looking intent upon winning as well so there was a weird hush in the cavernous gym.  I may have coughed but it wasn't like anyone was listening (this bit of detail has been thrown in for comedic value more so than historical accuracy since there would be no way I could possibly remember such a thing after so many years). 

Their best 'kicker' was up and we had one chance.  This was it.

I was busy staring at my nails still, intent on getting that one annoying bit of polish off that persisted upon staying put no matter how I scratched at it.  All of the sudden there was a loud ruckus, I look up to see everyone else staring at the red projectile ball that was even then soring through the vaulted ceiling.  My eyes followed the path of my arch nemesis and it was about that time, almost instantaneously, when I realized that it was headed towards...me!  Omg!  And the rest of the kids also realized it.  The other side cheered in excitement for their presumed victory, my side gasped in horror...in unison...so loud that I believe my face may have registered a split seconds worth of annoyance.  They could at least pretend like they have faith in me!  But all this happened within a blink of an eye as the ball headed right at me.  I kept thinking, "I'm going to get beaned...I'm going to get beaned."  I wanted to run around in circles covering my head but some spark of that feisty child in me screamed in protest and insisted that I at least try to catch the blasted piece of plastic (or whatever the heck it's made of).  I reached out thinking that at least a half hearted attempt would suffice to muzzle my inner tomboy and also so that for the rest of my school career I wasn't the girl who would be known as 'the one who dropped the ball' (literally). 

Oh, did I fail to mention that I also closed my eyes?  You realize how hard it is to catch a ball with ones eyes closed?  Generally speaking it's not recommended.  Apparently it could result in being hurt or even missing the ball.  But yea, brilliant me didn't want to see the vessel of my destruction come hurtling at me so I closed my peepers and said a prayer to God to see me through that moment without too much humiliation or injury. 

You wonder what happened?  Did I get knocked out like Mr. T did in Rocky?  Was I proverbial kickball roadkill?  Well...

NO!

HA!

Yes, the blessed thing sailed right into my stiff arms logging itself firmly there.  Not even a flippin' bounce.  I caught it (okay well rather fate let it drop to this specific location but let's not get technical) and there I stood shocked and a second later elated.  There was also a pause from the others, as if no one could believe what they had just seen.  Mouths hung agape, my eyes caught those of my best friends and even she looked bewildered.  Then the cheers, the hurrays, the loud hoots and hollers all making a deafening clamour around me as I was literally swarmed with my counterparts. 

It was a good day...a good good day.

I still bask in that glory.

I still do NOT like sports. 

Just sayin'.