(no subject)
I don't know if you know this yet, but, you absolutely love http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/
In response to her wonderosity, I'd like to ape her style and tell you about my aversion to sports (in all forms):
As a child, my parents didn't really know what they were doing (who does, really?). They were all like "we have this weird living thing.... we're responsible for it.... what should we do.... you know, after we get a divorce?"
They pretty much agreed that they should get me out of the house, since I was a boy they said "boys play baseball... little league!"
I had no idea why I was there or what I should do. It's a testament to the inclusivity of the Arcata MRMRMRMRM Pizza company who sponsored us that I was ever selected. We were....
The Mavericks!
I hated being at bat, I hated being on base, I hated sitting in the bullpen. Mostly I hated the stupid uniforms with the weird shaped socks and cleats and the notion that everyone was looking at me, expecting me to "do things." Things that did not, at all, come naturally to me.
I decided right field was best for me, and everyone else agreed. So I spent most of my time talking to the center fielder and ignoring the game. Swarms of gnats plagued us lonely outfielders, so occasionally we'd take off our mits (that's a technical term for "ball glove") and throw them at the gnats so that they'd disperse for about 20 seconds... then we'd have to throw our mits at them again. When a ball would be hit towards me, I'd have to pause my conversation (probably about weird al or... um... I didn't talk much about anything except weird al at that point), find my glove and run after the ball and throw it half way to the infield. Catching the ball never entered my realm of possibility.
Next, they decided soccer was a good, wholehearted american thing... right? This was just after I discovered that the world was not a huge conglomeration of fuzzy, odd shaped things that had more to do with my imagination than reality. I got glasses. Now, my parents are not rich, so they got me the largest, ugliest glasses possible and then decided to tether them to my face (lest their, $40 investment get crushed by opposing cleats) with what is called a croaky. My own cousin had to succumb to the pressure the team forced upon him to castigate and ritually mock the things attached to my head. My favorite moments in soccer were when I was on the bench and could look out at all the kids running back and forth for no real reason, panting, sweating over "points" that didn't represent anything tangible.
"Xeno (not my real name)! You're in." Ugh. Now I had to pretend I cared about points and what direction a ball was flung in. But I tried, tried REALLY hard (which, for me, was similar to a dying fish trying to execute a fisherman by flopping around in the bottom of a boat... really hard).
Lastly, I was placed in basketball. I got to play on the same team as my friend (I FINALLY had a friend!), Chris. Mr. Michael Shadix, the coach, was very inclusive, energetic and nice.... he was full of good, funny quotes and seemed to really care about all of us.
He cared so much that, when he noticed I had never made a single point for our team, he struck a deal with the opposing coach and all of my teammates that at a certain point, I WOULD make a basket, thereby helping my self esteem and making me think that "yes, I CAN make a difference!" The opposing team didn't cover me and all my teammates kept passing the ball to me, while I shot brick after brick for what seemed like hours. His inclusiveness and dedication to my self esteem only served to draw attention (especially mine) to the fact that everyone was just waiting on me to make what was essentially a free throw and I kept FAILING. I was so distracted and humiliated after I finally made a shot that I was drifting off into imagination when Chris passed me the ball and I only saw it as it slammed into my face, giving me a bloody nose. The entire audience gasped... it hit me REALLY hard. It was only made worse by the fact that I saw it a second too late and tried to move my arms up to grab the ball, only serving to flail my arms in front of me in a failed defensive position.
I hated Mr. Shadix for throwing me into a spotlight I never wanted and making the world see how I could completely fail. Later, though, in Sunny Brae Middle School, he was my english teacher (imagine that, an english teacher that also coaches basketball... he was full of surprises) and actually, he kind of inspired me to look at writing and reading differently... he walked on all of our desks while reading poetry and literature. He took an intense view of the meaning of the written word and I came to forgive him and even like him. I credit him for sparking a little bit of my love for the written word and odd sense of humor!
If you think this is some sort of happy ending....
http://www.northcoastjournal.com/080599/cover0805.html
Now I just need some simple, hamfisted microsoft paint pictures to illustrate this (not the last link, just the things I talked about)
In response to her wonderosity, I'd like to ape her style and tell you about my aversion to sports (in all forms):
As a child, my parents didn't really know what they were doing (who does, really?). They were all like "we have this weird living thing.... we're responsible for it.... what should we do.... you know, after we get a divorce?"
They pretty much agreed that they should get me out of the house, since I was a boy they said "boys play baseball... little league!"
I had no idea why I was there or what I should do. It's a testament to the inclusivity of the Arcata MRMRMRMRM Pizza company who sponsored us that I was ever selected. We were....
The Mavericks!
I hated being at bat, I hated being on base, I hated sitting in the bullpen. Mostly I hated the stupid uniforms with the weird shaped socks and cleats and the notion that everyone was looking at me, expecting me to "do things." Things that did not, at all, come naturally to me.
I decided right field was best for me, and everyone else agreed. So I spent most of my time talking to the center fielder and ignoring the game. Swarms of gnats plagued us lonely outfielders, so occasionally we'd take off our mits (that's a technical term for "ball glove") and throw them at the gnats so that they'd disperse for about 20 seconds... then we'd have to throw our mits at them again. When a ball would be hit towards me, I'd have to pause my conversation (probably about weird al or... um... I didn't talk much about anything except weird al at that point), find my glove and run after the ball and throw it half way to the infield. Catching the ball never entered my realm of possibility.
Next, they decided soccer was a good, wholehearted american thing... right? This was just after I discovered that the world was not a huge conglomeration of fuzzy, odd shaped things that had more to do with my imagination than reality. I got glasses. Now, my parents are not rich, so they got me the largest, ugliest glasses possible and then decided to tether them to my face (lest their, $40 investment get crushed by opposing cleats) with what is called a croaky. My own cousin had to succumb to the pressure the team forced upon him to castigate and ritually mock the things attached to my head. My favorite moments in soccer were when I was on the bench and could look out at all the kids running back and forth for no real reason, panting, sweating over "points" that didn't represent anything tangible.
"Xeno (not my real name)! You're in." Ugh. Now I had to pretend I cared about points and what direction a ball was flung in. But I tried, tried REALLY hard (which, for me, was similar to a dying fish trying to execute a fisherman by flopping around in the bottom of a boat... really hard).
Lastly, I was placed in basketball. I got to play on the same team as my friend (I FINALLY had a friend!), Chris. Mr. Michael Shadix, the coach, was very inclusive, energetic and nice.... he was full of good, funny quotes and seemed to really care about all of us.
He cared so much that, when he noticed I had never made a single point for our team, he struck a deal with the opposing coach and all of my teammates that at a certain point, I WOULD make a basket, thereby helping my self esteem and making me think that "yes, I CAN make a difference!" The opposing team didn't cover me and all my teammates kept passing the ball to me, while I shot brick after brick for what seemed like hours. His inclusiveness and dedication to my self esteem only served to draw attention (especially mine) to the fact that everyone was just waiting on me to make what was essentially a free throw and I kept FAILING. I was so distracted and humiliated after I finally made a shot that I was drifting off into imagination when Chris passed me the ball and I only saw it as it slammed into my face, giving me a bloody nose. The entire audience gasped... it hit me REALLY hard. It was only made worse by the fact that I saw it a second too late and tried to move my arms up to grab the ball, only serving to flail my arms in front of me in a failed defensive position.
I hated Mr. Shadix for throwing me into a spotlight I never wanted and making the world see how I could completely fail. Later, though, in Sunny Brae Middle School, he was my english teacher (imagine that, an english teacher that also coaches basketball... he was full of surprises) and actually, he kind of inspired me to look at writing and reading differently... he walked on all of our desks while reading poetry and literature. He took an intense view of the meaning of the written word and I came to forgive him and even like him. I credit him for sparking a little bit of my love for the written word and odd sense of humor!
If you think this is some sort of happy ending....
http://www.northcoastjournal.com/080599/cover0805.html
Now I just need some simple, hamfisted microsoft paint pictures to illustrate this (not the last link, just the things I talked about)