Two days ago I get an e-mail from a friend stating the following, "hey, my husband and I want to get together a kickball team for this summer! If anyone is interested, let us know!" Now, this girl is not a really good friend, but she's a great gal (the few times I have met her), and alot of fun. Despite all of this, my response, in my head, "hell to the no." THEN, our best friends here in Colorado respond all immediately, "sure, wer're in!I promptly sent my BFF and her husband a skathing e-mail telling them they were dorks. I did not disclose my personal secret at that time, as noone needs to know of my traumatic childhood past. I thought I had deleted said e-mail, but alas, I had not.
I happened to be on the phone with my BFF at the time (the one who I had earlier referred to as a dork for wanting to play kickball) and she started laughing in hysterics. Jon knew my secret, he knew the abject terror this little announcement would have on my physical and mental self. I felt my palms start to sweat, my body shake, and I was pretty sure I was having a minor which could quickly turn into a major panick attack. It was then that I had to face the secret I held, face my fears, and tell my BFF all things. I was, am, is, are, afraid of balls. It's not all balls, mostly balls wherein the intention is for people to hit you with them.
Dodgeball? The devils' game. It never made ANY sense to me why dodgeball was even invented. What sort of sick and twisted mind would ever think to themselves one day, "hey, how about a game where people are on opposite teams that hurl the ball at one another with the point being to hurl said ball as fast as possible to injure, bruise, and or (if said ball was hurled fast enough) knock people's feet out from underneath them so that they would fall ass up while eveyone fell into contagious fits of laughter while the victim simultaneously hauled their humiliated butt off the court." Kick ball? The Devil's game part II. The only difference between kickball and dogeball is that with kickball the victim has a little more momentun underneath their feet (thus making them helplessly less stable) trying desperately to run to a base while the "other team outfielders" try to slam the victims feet ... because who wants to hit you in the head? In the psychotic twisted minds of a kickball player it is far funnier to hit one in the feet and watch them scramble and then fall into a pile of dust before even reaching the base). People are SUPPOSED to get the ball to the "base" where you can be gently "tagged out". There was never a time in my elementary career where there was ANY gentle tagging out going on.
My Mom is now an Elementary School principal. On Spring break we went to Utah to visit. One day we went to her school so she could "open the gym and get out all the toys" for the grandsons to burn off some energy. What did I see upon entering the parking lot and getting closer to said elementary school? A killing ground. That's what I saw. It was a wall with a few doors COVERED in what had to be "ball marks" from balls that had been hurled, fast, at other poor elementary school victims playing the worse form of all kickball games... the one your teachers made you play, I call it prisoner dodge ball, when everyone stands up against the wall and one/two/three however many students the borderline psychotic teacher appointed would then slam the balls at you as hard as possible as you stood there helpless against the wall with your other classmates? The "goal" was you were supposed to CATCH the screaming 80mph ball as it hurled towards you head (even though the teacher was screaming, “below the waist, below the waist!”). THAT my friend was equivalent to Neo Nazi german war games of terror if you ask me. If said appointed students had guns, it would seem no different to me … the fear would be the same. Eventually I was going to die. The difference was in the prisoner dodgeball, it would be a slow painful emotionally crushing death where I was hit, sometimes might fall, and then would stand in the corner with my fellow comrades pissed that this game was ever even invented. On a seperate note, I was, however, the 4 square champion. That required no violence like dodgeball. It was the same ball as in dodgeball, but with 4 squares, and some skill. THAT I could do … oh, and double dutch jump rope. I'm pretty sure I suffer Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome from all those damned years of dodge ball/kick ball in Elementary School.
Then there was junior high school gym. I STILL to this day remember one particular girl (okay two particular girls) who I am pretty sure had an influx of testosterone the rest of us would never fathom, who were eventually forced to only throw "left handed" by the gym teacher as their bloody off the feet conquests were numbering the whole class after about 15 minutes of the dreaded game. I finally figured out by 8th grade (as did my BFF Jenny), that if you just stood there, and didn't move, you would be hit, but there was a little more stability in not moving, less chance you would fall to the ground from an 80mph hurling death ball from Brittany or Tasha, and then you didn't have to play anymore. Get hit, your out, then you can sit on the sidelines ... until the satist possibly, okay definately, lesbian gym teacher started another game! Yeah ... usually a given class period would get in about three games. Yeah.
Last night I had a NIGHTMARE about this while situation. Jon, my oh so supportive former high school jock, told me to not worry. He offered to let me stand the front room and he would throw balls at me to get me over my unnatural fear. Ass. I explained to my BFF this whole situation and her only response was, "good thing I didn't let you play on my volleyball team! Those balls are screaming fast and you would cower and I would have to pretend I didn't know you." Nice, nice BFF!
Oh hell! I explained I would not cower in the corner, more like cover my head, squeal, and cower somewhere between first and second base (assuming I even make it to first base). When I am hit, and I will be hit, I suspect my feet will be slammed right out from under me, I will fall, I will curse, and I will probably need to have a local Psychiatrist on my cell phone speed dial for an immediate emergency appointment for earlier stated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
My BFF was a rodeo person. While she did not wear bedazzled, fringed shirts with a horsey sporting a braided tail, pink bows, and a matching bejewled cowgirl hat, she did slam large beasts (she claims baby beasts) into the ground to tie their feet together. Which admittedly also makes no sense to me. Hey, baby animal, run out into that rodeo circle because someone is going to rope you, then slam you to the ground and humiliate you as they hog tie you all the while with a smile on their face. I have way to many allergies and abject terror that said beast would retaliate as I attempted to “hog tie” it’s poor little legs.
If my family had horsies, I could have been a rodeo princess, with cute wranglers, a bedazzled shirt with fringe, a braided horsey tail for my horse, and a pink saddle with matching cow girl hat. There would be no balls thrown, only me doing tricks and racing around barrels. THAT I could do, because I would look so stunning in my bedazzled cowgirl shirt.
Kickball ... I might kick jon in his balls for making me play. Butthole. My only solace is that I will be amongst friends. Despite my BFF's threat to walk away from me as if she has no idea who I am as I cower, hands covering my head, and squeeling like a stuck pig (perhaps not squeeling like a stuck pig, she may have flashbacks and trie to rope and hog tie my hand to my feet), she better claim me and walk off the field with me as I incoherently mumble something about the trauma of Elementary School/Junior High school dodgeball.
CORT
No comments:
Post a Comment