This is another piece from back in the Volume One archives that, like a frog frozen in the mud, is finding new life amidst the rising temperatures. Don't pity me. I've learned to cope. Pity the other sports idiots who still struggle with these issues.
Please Don't Pass Me the Ball
I am dumb at sports. If our society determined overall intelligence using kinesthetic sense and, by extension, mechanical aptitude instead of language and mathematics, I would be living in a special home with several other sports-challenged gentlemen. A college student with a Social Work major would show up a few times a week to take us to a baseball field and watch as we flailed around and attempted to kick field goals with our Nerf frisbees. My housemates and I would get ice cream afterwards just for trying.
|Standing around was the part of kickball I was best at|
I still try to golf, and although there has been a tiny amount of improvement, I am still dumb at golf. There is no way for me to translate what I understand I am supposed to do to actual body motion. I just walk up to the ball, have a violent golf spasm, and hope it goes well. My father-in-law joins me every few T-times, and he tries to help. He is a retired middle school biology teacher, so he has a mountain of experience in helping mindless human beings learn new things, and preventing them from eating whatever is being dissected. He watches my swing and makes very insightful comments on wrist-breaking and hip rotation, and then I walk up to the ball again and have approximately the same violent golf spasm, sending the ball to approximately the same spot, thirty yards to the right of fairway behind a large tree. There is always a tree. My father-in-law usually offers some genuine yet somehow not reassuring comment about consistency.
|I am #44, the kid who looks like he's wearing eye makeup.|
|Washers: The Type of Sport I Can Handle|