E for Effort
I learned something new and important about myself this weekend.
I am a good waterskiier. I have a talent for waterskiing. You might even go so far as to call me a natural.
On my fourth try ever, I managed to get up on the skies and zoom along behind the boat all over the lake. Wakes were no match for my prowess. (Well, at least for a few minutes.) It was all surprisingly easy...and incredibly fun.
Lest you think my ego is out of hand here, let me back up and explain just why this is such a ground-breaking, confidence-boosting unexpected phenomena in my life.
You see, I suck at sports. Seriously. I'm bad at them. I lack the coordination, I lack the talent, I lack the drive, and I often lack the physical ability. I'm a terrible runner. I can't throw, I can't catch, I can't hit the ball, I can't make a basket. It's embarrassing, and I try, as much as possible, to avoid situations in which I'll out myself as the klutzy non-athlete that I am.
When I was in second grade, I won a paper certificate for being able to do the third most situps in a minute (32, for the record) of all the girls in my class. I treasured that certificate - my only athletic award - for years. I based my identity around "being good at sit-ups." (For the record, I'm not. I lost that skill long ago.)
Playing sports as a child was often a traumatizing experience. I will not soon forget the time when I was 12 and at softball practice, and couldn't hit the ball. I'll not forget the embarrassment of standing at the plate in the hot sun, whiffing at one ball after another, my face getting redder and redder, for well over half an hour, my coach insistent that no one quit until they'd made contact with the ball at least once. I'll not forget my teammates - those bitchy 12 year old girls for whom athletic ability came naturally -- and their snickers, their exasperated sighs as I swung, and missed, yet again, their eye-rolls and exchanged glances, their snarky comments later at the bench.
I'll not forget my summer soccer league at age 15 -- that community sports program that was supposed to be all about "having fun" and "learning the game" and "getting exercise." Except, of course, the team was coached by the Varsity soccer coach and filled with all the soccer team girls. In other words, we took our community soccer league awfully seriously.
My fifteen year old self wanted so badly to be, if not befriended, at least accepted by that click of oh-so-popular soccer girls. Step one: I had to have the right clothing. So I saved up my baby-sitting money and bought a pair of Umbro shorts (because everyone wore Umbros) and a beautiful pair of blue $60 Adidas -- about three times more expensive than any shoe I had every owned. I loved those Adidas. I spent weeks picking out the perfect pair of sneakers at the store. Once I had them, I couldn't stop peaking in at the box every few minutes on my way home. This was the way to social acceptance: a pair of blue Adidas sneakers and some Umbros shorts.
On the first day of practice, I was made fun of for not having cleats. Sixty-dollar Adidas notwithstanding, I still had the wrong shoes.
My summer soccer experience did not get much better from there. One memorable low point: the time I tried to stop a ball soaring through the sky with my chest -- the way all the other girls did it -- and ended up getting knocked to the ground because I caught it in the jaw instead. Oh, everyone got a good laugh out of that one.
Other athletic experiences were not much better. I couldn't make the basketball team in 7th grade - despite the coach's warnings that having a good attitude was more important than skill, and I know I had a far better attitude than most of those girls on the team -- because I made exactly 0 out of 20 free throw attempts. I was usually among the last to be picked for teams in gym. In fact, if anything, I developed a real talent for avoiding as much physical activity as possible in gym class. I am a grade-A bench sitter.
With all of that history behind me, you'll understand, I hope, if I brag about my waterskiing just a little. If I take a little pride at being unexpectedly good at something that seems to require some physical ability. If I relish the feeling of being, for one afternoon, better than almost everyone else in the group at a sporting activity.
Take that, you nasty girls of my childhood. Take that.
I am a good waterskiier. I have a talent for waterskiing. You might even go so far as to call me a natural.
On my fourth try ever, I managed to get up on the skies and zoom along behind the boat all over the lake. Wakes were no match for my prowess. (Well, at least for a few minutes.) It was all surprisingly easy...and incredibly fun.
Lest you think my ego is out of hand here, let me back up and explain just why this is such a ground-breaking, confidence-boosting unexpected phenomena in my life.
You see, I suck at sports. Seriously. I'm bad at them. I lack the coordination, I lack the talent, I lack the drive, and I often lack the physical ability. I'm a terrible runner. I can't throw, I can't catch, I can't hit the ball, I can't make a basket. It's embarrassing, and I try, as much as possible, to avoid situations in which I'll out myself as the klutzy non-athlete that I am.
When I was in second grade, I won a paper certificate for being able to do the third most situps in a minute (32, for the record) of all the girls in my class. I treasured that certificate - my only athletic award - for years. I based my identity around "being good at sit-ups." (For the record, I'm not. I lost that skill long ago.)
Playing sports as a child was often a traumatizing experience. I will not soon forget the time when I was 12 and at softball practice, and couldn't hit the ball. I'll not forget the embarrassment of standing at the plate in the hot sun, whiffing at one ball after another, my face getting redder and redder, for well over half an hour, my coach insistent that no one quit until they'd made contact with the ball at least once. I'll not forget my teammates - those bitchy 12 year old girls for whom athletic ability came naturally -- and their snickers, their exasperated sighs as I swung, and missed, yet again, their eye-rolls and exchanged glances, their snarky comments later at the bench.
I'll not forget my summer soccer league at age 15 -- that community sports program that was supposed to be all about "having fun" and "learning the game" and "getting exercise." Except, of course, the team was coached by the Varsity soccer coach and filled with all the soccer team girls. In other words, we took our community soccer league awfully seriously.
My fifteen year old self wanted so badly to be, if not befriended, at least accepted by that click of oh-so-popular soccer girls. Step one: I had to have the right clothing. So I saved up my baby-sitting money and bought a pair of Umbro shorts (because everyone wore Umbros) and a beautiful pair of blue $60 Adidas -- about three times more expensive than any shoe I had every owned. I loved those Adidas. I spent weeks picking out the perfect pair of sneakers at the store. Once I had them, I couldn't stop peaking in at the box every few minutes on my way home. This was the way to social acceptance: a pair of blue Adidas sneakers and some Umbros shorts.
On the first day of practice, I was made fun of for not having cleats. Sixty-dollar Adidas notwithstanding, I still had the wrong shoes.
My summer soccer experience did not get much better from there. One memorable low point: the time I tried to stop a ball soaring through the sky with my chest -- the way all the other girls did it -- and ended up getting knocked to the ground because I caught it in the jaw instead. Oh, everyone got a good laugh out of that one.
Other athletic experiences were not much better. I couldn't make the basketball team in 7th grade - despite the coach's warnings that having a good attitude was more important than skill, and I know I had a far better attitude than most of those girls on the team -- because I made exactly 0 out of 20 free throw attempts. I was usually among the last to be picked for teams in gym. In fact, if anything, I developed a real talent for avoiding as much physical activity as possible in gym class. I am a grade-A bench sitter.
With all of that history behind me, you'll understand, I hope, if I brag about my waterskiing just a little. If I take a little pride at being unexpectedly good at something that seems to require some physical ability. If I relish the feeling of being, for one afternoon, better than almost everyone else in the group at a sporting activity.
Take that, you nasty girls of my childhood. Take that.
posted by Melissa at 1:14 PM
1 Comments:
Those soccer bitches can eat your Umbros. You kicked butt on those skis, and somehow managed to keep your suit on, unlike me. Next time you'll be holding the rope in your teeth and doing jazz-fingers.
Post a Comment
<< Home