I was never the last person picked for the dodgeball team. But I was consistently in the bottom 25 percent. I came to dread the weekly match officiated by our solid stump of a PE teacher. Heart thumping, eyes on the blacktop, a humiliating seepage of blood coloring my cheeks, I waited to be called on by the team captain -- a quick, wiry girl whose freckled, eight-year old innocence hid her ruthless appetite for victory. Eventually I was chosen, but not before much sighing and deliberation on her part, as if she were forced to choose between a kindergartener and a cripple.
It didn’t take me long to uncover a fundamental truth: you were either a Brain or a Jock. I was a Brain. I allied myself with the gifted-and-talented kids and the other goody-goodies. Jocks, I decided, were simple-minded and cocky. There were a few nice (and even smart) ones, but that didn’t change my belief that Jocks were an altogether different species.
As a Brain, I always sat in the front rows of my classes. I drank in my teachers’ approval and noted, with satisfaction, that girl jocks sweated and generally had bad hair. My performance in high school PE was appropriately mediocre. Even when there were occasional hints of my athletic ability, such as when I would hurl a damp tennis ball great distances for our dog to fetch, I ignored them; I was no Jock.
During my junior year at college, my co-op housing group formed a softball team and the self-appointed captain invited me to join. I was hesitant, but secretly giddy at being one of the first to be chosen. I might still have said no, but my boyfriend was joining and I fantasized about impressing him with some unlikely catch or home run.
I was given the position of second baseman. This petrified me. I prayed for balls to fly anywhere but in my direction, or, better yet, for a freak rainstorm to postpone the game.
During one particular game, I hovered at second base, anxiety gnawing at my intestines. I glanced at the runner on first, who menacingly shifted back and forth, ready to steal. Before I realized what was happening, the next batter had already cracked a fast grounder right toward me. As if guided by a strong current, my body moved automatically. In a single, fluid motion, I scooped up the ball in my glove, tagged second base with my foot, and then turned to fire the ball to first. A satisfying thook told me the throw was good; I had just made a double play. There was an instant of cool disbelief -- and then I exploded inside. My team erupted, streaming toward me from all over the field, cheers booming in my ears, hands suddenly pounding by back. My boyfriend threw his arm around my neck and kissed me extravagantly.
We lost the game, but I floated on that victory for the rest of the season.
Comments