I wrote this piece to bring to the adult writing group this week. We are going to share in small groups and critique, which is great because it needs critiquing. But I felt compelled to paste my piece here. I hope I can pass onto Mabel the very idea it conveys: that you won't be good at everything, and that's the human experience. And it's actually quite lovely..
I believe I suck at lots of things.
When
I was ten years old, I signed up for recreational softball. I was
delighted to be on the “pink shirt” team with my neighbors Laura and
Katie. That first season, we practiced a lot at Tilden Field, under the
tutelage of three ladies-- well, in retrospect, they were girls,
probably not more than 18- years- old. They’d throw us pitches, and we
would see if we could hit. We often didn’t, and our team was awful.
Correction: abysmal. My supportive and probably still hopeful dad took
me out in the backyard on off days and tried to instill in me some
basics for improvement: don’t be afraid of the ball, and wearing your
glasses would really help in hitting and catching. You want me to wear my glasses socially? Never. The
kindhearted coaches continued to embrace our newbie team’s suckiness,
and to accept me as perhaps the player with the highest level of
suckitude. They’d stick me in the outfield, where I was more concerned
with watching the gymnastics that kids were doing on the monkey bars, or
with chatting with a fellow sucky player who was also in the outfield.
By season’s end, the pink team must have been in last place, but we had
fun, and I had been on a team with my dearest friends. I had competed,
and I had always shown up.
In
season 2, I, apparently a masochist, showed up again. This time, I was
put on Mr. Waldner’s team, and these girls meant business. They rarely
struck out. And I rarely even got out on the field-- which was fine. Keep me hidden. I am still on the team, and nobody will out me as the worst softball player ever to join the rec league. I
remember listening to “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles on my tape player
before getting to practice once, and spending most of my time while
riding the pine trying to memorize the lyrics to the song. I didn’t
care a bit about the outcome of the game. By ⅔ of the way into the
season, I told my parents I wanted to quit. The spirit of the nice
ladies from the pink team was nowhere to be find on this new, seemingly
draconian but really just skilled team of girls. They were always nice
to me, but I was scared. Scared to let them down. Scared to be observed
as horrifically clumsy when it came to catching and hitting an object in
the air.
I
could go on about an array of athletic endeavors from there: somehow
making the JV field hockey team as a freshman in high school but
spending the bulk of the little time I got on the field in a complete
panic about what I would do should the ball actually come to me. In gym
class, I would bristle when I had to join the rotation on the
volleyball court, completely aware that I would never serve the ball
correctly let alone spike it. And there was my adventure with the
stringent tennis instructor, Stacey, who came right out and told me that
perhaps I’d do better with swimming lessons.
And Stacey was right. I was better
at swimming. While I only focused during these years on what I sucked
at, I ignored what I COULD do: I was one of only two girls in my dance class that could warp my body into what we called “the
frog.” I advanced into the final stage of swim lessons faster than most
kids at our neighborhood pool. And the one thing I never rolled my eyes
about in gym class was the physical fitness test-- because I could run.
And I could do all the balance moves well. And I mastered every step
in the aerobics component. I couldn’t throw or catch a ball, and I
wasn’t much at joining a feisty clan of field hockey players in a
determined fight in which my ankle might be lobbed off. I
wasn’t aggressive, and I couldn’t be counted on in team sports. But I
could do things. Things that were fun and gave me satisfaction and even some self- worth.
But back then I never gave myself any credit for the stuff I could do. I’m
so bad at even yard volleyball that when we play at someone’s house, I
better stay out of the game and just swim. They’ll get mad at me for
screwing up the game.
So afraid to let people down, the ultimate people- pleaser, I became
terrified of situations where my lack of skill meant I’d bring others
down with me. It’s probably why the one sport I liked and became good
at, and as a result developed confidence in, was track and field. Sure,
track is a team sport. But I didn’t have to pass the ball to anyone,
and I couldn’t be blamed for not putting up enough of a defensive fight
in front of the goalie.
I
chuckle because even now, I shy away from playing sports. We have a
seemingly fun softball tournament among some daring faculty at school
every June, called the Advil Cup, and I never play. I cheer from the
bleachers and give people water. But even when people say, “It’s for
fun and nobody cares,” I know it’s not true. People want to win, and
they won’t with me among their ranks. I’ve accepted my lack of
throw- and- catch athleticism. And I’m glad I figured out I can run and
swim and do a round of ballet positions and both right and left
over- splits. (OK, I used to be able to do all those things.)
I
suck at lots of things. And if I hadn’t sucked at them, I’d never have
figured out a whole litany of other things that I don’t suck
at. It’s good to know you’re horrible sometimes. This, I believe.
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