Monday, February 26, 2007
Roots Of Self-Loathing, Volume 98
It's a tough thing to get called out in teeball time and time again for being unable to hit the ball out of the infield. Our team, the Hurons, had the worst record in the league and my being platooned in far right field meant that I was the worst player in the league.
To give myself some credit, my father had bought me a brand-new fielder's glove before my inaugural season, a nice gesture except the fact even Andre the Giant would have a hard time squeezing it shut, so saddle-stiff was its leather. Couple that with my natural propensity to daydream and an acre or two of clovers that desperately needed searching for mutant variations, and my teeball career was not off to a good start.
A month into the season, my batting average stood at a solid .000. The coaches were indifferent and my father was mostly at the golf course, so, idiot that I was, I turned for advice to my mother, a woman who not only threw like a girl, but also sewed like a girl and cooked like a girl and talked like a girl, etc.
Her advice was simple: "Once you make contact with the ball, just put your head down and run as fast as you can."
It made sense, but a cursory reexamination of the text reveals a phrase that was to be my undoing, for on that sultry summer night I did swing as hard as I could, and I did run as fast as I could and I did put my head down. And when I couldn't find first base, I lifted my head and found myself standing midway between first and second, nearly in my clover patch, both teams laughing at me.
To give myself some credit, my father had bought me a brand-new fielder's glove before my inaugural season, a nice gesture except the fact even Andre the Giant would have a hard time squeezing it shut, so saddle-stiff was its leather. Couple that with my natural propensity to daydream and an acre or two of clovers that desperately needed searching for mutant variations, and my teeball career was not off to a good start.
A month into the season, my batting average stood at a solid .000. The coaches were indifferent and my father was mostly at the golf course, so, idiot that I was, I turned for advice to my mother, a woman who not only threw like a girl, but also sewed like a girl and cooked like a girl and talked like a girl, etc.
Her advice was simple: "Once you make contact with the ball, just put your head down and run as fast as you can."
It made sense, but a cursory reexamination of the text reveals a phrase that was to be my undoing, for on that sultry summer night I did swing as hard as I could, and I did run as fast as I could and I did put my head down. And when I couldn't find first base, I lifted my head and found myself standing midway between first and second, nearly in my clover patch, both teams laughing at me.
Labels: advice, humiliation, self-loathing, sports, teeball
Friday, February 16, 2007
Roots Of Self-Loathing, Volume 67
One morning in gym class during 8th grade, at the pinnacle of my social ostracism in life, a time when I couldn't make eye contact with a male classmate without him asking me who my best friend was, our gym teacher made everyone in class in succession stand before the class, bend at the waist, touch their head to a wall and attempt to pick up a small chair.
Everyone had to do this, the boys and the girls, those who could perform the task retiring to a different side of the gym than those who couldn't. Soon a pattern developed: the girls were the lifters and the guys weren't, the point being that girls have a lower center of gravity - oh, and Kourlas, too. Cue laughter.
I have thick legs and calves. God bless the gym teacher for utilizing a public forum to reinforce my dad's rebuke while dressing me in ill-fitting church clothes that I had "hips like a girl."
Everyone had to do this, the boys and the girls, those who could perform the task retiring to a different side of the gym than those who couldn't. Soon a pattern developed: the girls were the lifters and the guys weren't, the point being that girls have a lower center of gravity - oh, and Kourlas, too. Cue laughter.
I have thick legs and calves. God bless the gym teacher for utilizing a public forum to reinforce my dad's rebuke while dressing me in ill-fitting church clothes that I had "hips like a girl."
Labels: body, gym, humiliation, middle school, self-loathing
