I am
not. Not in any way shape or form. (
I stole that phrase from Jeff {read his excellent blog here}. Thanks, man!)
Let me tell you a little bit about me:
Ahem. I stink at sports. All of them. And when I say I stink, I genuinely mean it. Wholeheartedly.
I am the Queen of Uncoordination, Lack of Reflexes, and Clumsiness. Basically, I get hurt whenever I play sporty-ish games.
Hurt? you ask. What do you mean, hurt?
This is what I mean: if there is an object flying through the air that is meant to be hit or caught, then tossed to another person, I am incapable of fulfilling that task.
Why am I incapable? Because I have no reflexes; therefore, I get hurt.
See, the object--meant to be hit or caught, then tossed to another person--if it is flying through the air, it will inevitably find contact with my face. Even if I am NOT EVEN PLAYING!!! I can be fifty feet away from the game and the object will hit my face. No joke. You can ask my roommates--it's a running joke with them ("Cover your face, Chess!"), and they will vouch for my shortcomings in any sports arena.
In sixth grade, it was the volleyball in my glasses in PE. In Young Women's, it was the volleyball or basketball during stake games. Two years ago, it was a football at FHE in the park (I was sitting with my friends far, far away from the game, and suddenly, I was flat on my back, tears pouring out of my stinging eyes, because the football had found me, just me, among 75 other people and sailed right into my nose). This spring, the volleyball from the neighboring court didn't hit me in the face, but it rammed right into my chest knocking the breath out of me. See what I mean? I don't even have to be playing with the people who own the ball.
But here's the most humiliating one of all and it happened mid-April of this year:
I worked as a mentor at the middle school in Logan: I'd tutor for an hour, and then the second hour would be a fun activity of some sort. This particular day, we were taking all the students outside to play tennis. We had rackets and balls, and all the students were excited about going outside after having been cooped up all winter.
We get to the courts behind the school, and all the kids start whacking the tennis balls around, and they're cheering and laughing and having a grand old time. There are some extra rackets, so all the kids are urging and cajoling me to come and play with them. I love them, so I gamely get up and join them, but the second we start playing, I somehow don't see the ball coming, and it whizzes past my face. This close. I can feel the air rush past just millimeters from the skin on the tip of my nose. I drop the racket and grab my face, making sure it's still there.
The kids are deathly silent, and one of my seventh-graders holds up his hand and stops the game. Mason looks at me somberly and gravely shakes his head, "Maybe it's better if you don't play. I think you'll be safer behind the fence, Chessie."
Oh. Em. Gee.
So, I hang my head and trudge back to where the other mentors are sitting. They ask me why I am back so soon, and I have to tell them that a 13-year-old kid banned me from playing tennis because it was for my own good and safety.
Like I said. Humiliating.
