Soccer: Usually played in some cloudy damp season. In professional soccer, the people generally have their own roles in the team and all work together to kick a cute little black-and-white ball into a great big net guarded by whoever wants to run around the least yet doesn't mind getting hit in the face repeatedly.
In little-kid soccer, all of the kids just cram around the ball in some weird huddle-thing. They're like pack of vicious sardines. They're all just...kicking the ball. It does not go anywhere. It doesn't have anywhere TO go. It makes it about two feet and then gets kicked by a sardine right back to where it came from. Eventually some lucky sardine will kick it out of the mob. The ball then rolls off slowly towards one of the goals (Not necessarily the correct one, but a goal nonetheless.) the sardines chase after it, shouting unintelligibly at each other. The ball gets kicked off into one of the goals right over the goalies' head and the goalie doesn't notice because the goalie saw a bug and is on the ground studying it.
Sometimes the ball would just get kicked out into the center of the field, where me, and a few other kids who really didn't want to be there would be hanging out, talking. Would we kick the ball towards the nearest goal? HELL NO. If WE have the ball, it means that the vicious sardines are going to rush over and maul us. So we'd just kick the ball back to the sardines, and they'd continue doing whatever it is they do. Occasionally, just to pretend I was actually almost-involved in the game, I'd sort of run after the sardines. But then- whoops!- I'd "lose my shoe" and have to go back and get it. Once I ran a little without my shoe, looking so into the game that I simply hadn't noticed it was gone.
"Oh, wow, this game is so exciting! Wait..something doesn't feel right. Oh. My shoe's gone. Gee, where could it be? Ahaa, right there, where I purposefully lost it, riiiight. Guess I'd better go back...and get it....Golly this velcro is hard to fasten. Gotta be perfect. If it's not perfect, I might not be able to lose it again later. There, all better. Now where are the sardines? Hey! Water break! Sweet."
And that was soccer.
Basketball was different, but not much better. Most of it wasn't even actual gameplay. The coaches were trying to get us to understand the rules (Most of us never did. To this day, I have no idea how basketball is played. And I don't care.) and making us suffer through endless drills. Passing drills were terrible. You always got paired up with some kid who was either A) Three feet taller than you, B) Threw the ball really really really hard, or C) Was as apathetic as you, and thus neither of you benefited.
When a ball is thrown at you, people seem to think that instinct is to catch it. This is not true. Instinct is to duck and squeal. I was never actually hit with a basketball. I was too busy ducking and screaming, especially after my brother was hit in the stomach, and my sister sprained her finger during these drills.
If ever we go to play an actual game, I could never remember who my teammates were. I wasn't sure which hoop was okay to toss the ball in. I was too freaking short for that ANYWAY. I am currently 5'0". I have not grown since I was fifteen. When I was in basketball, I was like, nine. So yeah, I was really really short. A lot of the kids in my homeschool group are really, really tall. Now, several of them are well over 6 feet.
I handled basketball very much like I handled soccer, only more running around. Ball bounces near me, I PASS IT. Quickly. I don't think I even bothered to dribble, I just tossed that thing like a can of soda with a bee in it.
Volleyball was almost okay. It was reasonably civilized, for a sport. The ball didn't usually almost kill you, and I could actually hit it over the net occasionally.
Then some kid walked under the net, cut his scalp on something, bled profusely all over the gym floor, and got taken away in an ambulance. The game was adjourned, and we got sent out to the playground. I fainted. None of the adults noticed.
Volleyball was less okay, but still better than the other sports because I could participate without fearing Vicious Sardines or Giant Crazy Basketball-Lovers.
Kickball wasn't too bad either. I could handle a little kickball. I had no idea what the rules were, but I'd kick it around and run where they told me. That's all I remember. So I was not well prepared when my Sunday School class decided to go outside and play kickball. I hadn't been there long, so nobody knew me that well. I knew I'd get picked last, and actually did not care. I was kinda hoping there'd be an odd number or something and I could sneak off and watch. I hung out at the back of the line, hoping the game would end before I got a turn. No such luck. Dammit. I kicked the ball a couple of times. It wasn't awesome enough for me to get to run anywhere, but apparently some other people got to run around or something, and the man said that was a good thing. Whatever, man. I'm just glad I didn't die.
I never experienced baseball or softball. I don't even know the DIFFERENCE between baseball and softball. I assume in softball, the ball is softer. But not actually soft. Who'd wanna play a sport with an actual SOFT BALL? Nobody would get HURT that way, and that's no fun at all. Only pansies would play with a soft ball.
I never played football either. I don't watch football. Apparently, in Texas, this is a criminal act. I have friends and future in-laws who are absolutely rabid football fans. They watch every game. They actually know the names of some of the players. They seem to know what's going on. I watched a leetle teeny bit of a football game once. I didn't know what was going on, but some guy had the ball, and he was running....but then he didn't have the ball, and he was sitting on the ground, pouting like a freaking four-year-old. This made me laugh. Like, hysterically. I think the football fans thought I was a little bit weird. Sorry football fans, but that was the whole entertaining moment of this game. The rest of the time, the players run, tackle, throw, run, tackle, kick, pout, run, tackle, dog-pile, run, tackle, get taken away in an ambulance.
People ask me if I am a Longhorn or an Aggie. I tell them I basically don't give a damn. They look at me as though I have just drop-kicked a puppy. I am sorry, people. I don't mind if YOU watch sports. If that's your thang, go right ahead.
I'll be over here, making shadow puppets. Because that is quality entertainment.
The last sport I tried was bowling. I liked bowling. The ball goes AWAY from you. It does not usually fly up and hit people in the face (But never say never). You can go, throw your big ol' heavy ball at a bunch of cute little white pins who never did anything to deserve this, and if you knock a few down, you get to jump around and clap and dance with your friends. In between turns, there is time for social interaction. Nobody is particularly competitive, and you even get to add a handicap to your scores so you can pretend you're as awesome as Norm Duke, which is the only professional bowler whom I can remember the name of. And the only reason I remember Norm Duke is because it's kind of a weird name, and he's a really really short dude with a big nose.
Sorry, Norm.
I bowled on the Varsity league for five years. I didn't care enough to actually IMPROVE during that time, but I did it, I had a lot of fun with all those crazy bowling people, and I got a letter. It's the letter G. It has shiny pins and stuff on it. I have my own bowling ball with name on it because half the league has the exact same ball style that I have. I have my own shoes that give me foot cramps. I have too many towels, and a cute little chalk bag with chili peppers all over it, even though I don't like chili peppers.
I have various shiny trophies around my room that make me look cool, like I won stuff or something.
Several of them are just because everybody got trophies, so that nobody would be all sad. But a couple of them are for actually winning something, or at least coming in second place.
Plus, the big trophy is really handy for hanging my blue wig on.
I love my blue wig.
It needs a name. I just realized my wig is NAMELESS. This is horrible. I'll come up with something, never fear, Blue Wig!
No comments:
Post a Comment
Nobody ever comments.
But you...you could be one of the few. The brave, daring few who have left a comment.
So go ahead.
I DARE YOU.