This picture is of the first day of ski school. Look at that naive son of a bitch smiling away without a care in the world. Let’s just say the last day of the program I found myself in a full-blown panic attack slowly making my way down a mountain with four very uncomfortable people. The trainer mistook my raspy breathing as asthma rather than anxiety. I thought I’d have to fight off CPR.
I am terrified of team sports. I think it has something to do with people expecting my height to somehow assist me in my coordination.
You’re probably thinking, “Oh no, now she is going to talk about how her long limbs got in the way of her athletic ability”. Or you are thinking, “Can I eat this Chinese food if it has been in my fridge for two weeks?” If the first question, you are wrong, I am an amazing athlete. If the second, yes you can eat it, I have already tested the theory for you. You’re welcome.
Soccer: When your parents don’t realize you’re American
At the ripe age of four, I was enrolled in soccer. Maybe if I was born literally anywhere else in the world I would enjoy this sport but… no.
Who didn’t have to go through this experience? Parents try to make sure their kid doesn’t get type II diabetes so they enroll them in shit like soccer and gymnastics.
(Pro tip: Thank god for childhood obesity because I can buy cheaper clothes in the plus-size section of Gap Kids.)
Well, did you have a dad who stood on the sidelines yelling at the coach’s lack of ability as a coach and as a man? This only started my career. At every game, my dad would stand farther down the field and give me opposite advice to what my coaches were saying.
“Melanie! Head back to defense!” yelled the coaches.
“Melanie! Don’t listen to them! They’ve never played a day of soccer in their life! Go for the ball! Aggression is key!” screamed my father.
Understandably, soccer games became a huge source of anxiety for me. So did tennis, kickball and for one summer, fencing. Naturally.
Over the years I racked up some pretty gruesome injuries. Including the time I injured my ankle, was strapped into a boot and then put in the goalie box to keep me safe, to be then injured by my own teammate. Oh did you want me to tell you that story? Don’t worry, here it goes.
My dad was really big on the concept of supporting your team no matter what, so with my new ankle boot I hobbled onto the soccer field to wish my team good luck before the game. We were missing our goalie and so in their desperation, they asked me to stand in goal. I learned two things from that moment:
1.) Never show up to anything injured or sick, because people will still find ways to put you to use when you don’t want to be, and 2.) Always negotiate for an extra snack when being asked to perform a dangerous service, especially when Sarah’s mom brings orange slices.
I accepted the new position and tugged on the neon, smelly vest that comes with the glory of the goalie. I planned to stay rooted in my safe little box until I realized I was actually standing in the target zone.
I wrapped my arms around the ball to look up and see two figures speeding towards me. I felt an intense pain and blacked out. My response is best told through my mother’s interpretation, “You were sprawled out on the ground and then you shot up with a scream of pain. It was kinda funny like when you giggle at a horror movie trailer.” Very relatable.
The arm I broke was on the same side of my body as my ankle boot so for weeks after the injury, I hobbled around with the right side of my body heavier than the other. The most flattering nickname I received was ‘bionic woman’, and that was from my dad. The least flattering was ‘cripple’, which was from my mom.
Good times. At least I can say I was allright!
Volleyball: Oh you’re tall? Get the fuck on this team
My mom encouraged me to try out for the volleyball team in eighth grade and when I say encouraged I actually mean she refused to pick me up after school until I called her sweaty and out of breath from the excitement of the experience. If I called her sweaty and out of breath for any other reason, it was just another day in middle school.
The last bell rang and I stayed seated on the locker room bench as a gang of girls came through to change into athletic gear. I tried some small talk like, “Hey! I have never played this sport before and it would be swell if you could explain every rule in the game and also never pass me the ball,” or some casual locker room banter such as, “No worries, I am no threat to you as I will not be making the team. Please just let me live through this.”
Some girls gave me weak smiles of pity, while others laughed as if I was joking. One, in particular, sprayed me with perfume and whispered to me, good luck. I took it as either a superstitious ritual or a hint that I needed to find my deodorant again. I trudged out onto the court where the volleyball net had already been erected.
The coach came up behind me and slapped me across the back, “I’m so glad you came, Whyte. We can finally put your height to good use.”
What does that mean? Did she think my height had been of no use so far for anything but the godly athleticism of volleyball?
“I can reach things on the top shelf,” I mumbled. She looked at me for a beat too long with a concerned look on her face.
The same look she gave me when I was put on the discus team for track and field, then realized I had no strength, moved me to the sprinters, realized I’m not fast, then moved me to long-distance running, where I perfected the technique of lifting your knees in an exaggerated motion so that from the other side of the track it looked like you were jogging in slow motion.
I’m not sure where I was going with this, but needless to say, I had a bad track record!
Basketball: If I was shorter would you still love me?
Eventually, I found basketball, where the shorts are baggy and the girls are… tall. Did you think I was going to say saggy? Because they are not. They wear sports bras.
I made my middle school basketball team and after the initial relief of accomplishing a tryout without injuring someone else, I realized I would actually have to play a game with people watching.
The crowd at my first game could be described as human, maybe with a few service dogs mixed in. I was sent out on the court with my white skin shiny under the gym’s fluorescent lights and my limbs swinging nervously by my side.
My coach screamed, “defense!” at me as I made small talk with the other team’s players. It was important to me that everyone liked me so this was the natural position for me to be in. In an effort to please the coach, I broke the girl’s nose.
Oh wait, I skipped some details.
As I was having a lovely conversation about how I don’t particularly enjoy being sweaty, the basketball bounced off the rim and ricocheted towards us.
In an effort to protect her (i.e. defense) I reached out to grab the ball and my elbow came crashing down on her fragile cartilage. I promised to be right back and made a shot for my team, but she didn’t want to exchange chat-room information after that.
You win some, you lose some. I say I won on several accounts, one of the bigger reasons being that I was diagnosed with scoliosis at the nurse’s the next day and no longer had to participate in team sports.
You know what they say, back surgery is a bitch but nothing is worse than enforced team spirit.