Confessions of a Spaz

OK, full confession: I know nothing about sports. Well, not nothing, exactly, but you could never mistake me for a jock. I've never even had jock itch. I'm able to enjoy sports as much as anyone can without knowing exactly what I'm looking at.

It started in first grade, where I majored in tumbling. You remember tumbling class, right? You were graded on how well you could do somersaults on little foam mats. It sounds simple, but I kept tumbling over onto the floor. My somersaults were uncoordinated and I was never able to complete one; I just toppled off in another direction. I quickly changed my major to spelling, which was easier because it didn't involve leaving my seat.

In fifth and sixth grades, boys gathered in the schoolyard for softball. There were two classifications of boys in my school: either you were a pro or you were a spaz. The pros were the cool guys who classified the rest of us. Yes, I was a spaz. Back in those days, there was this medieval torture known as Picking Sides. Two teams were assigned a leader by the coach, and those leaders picked their players. I was a spaz before it was politically incorrect to say so, a spaz even before having to prove it, just because I was short and skinny and wore glasses. So I was chosen last, and the last kid chosen for the other team exchanged anxious glances with me, knowing our fates were sealed.

Sure enough, I was as spazzy as they came. I leaned so far out to swing at the ball that I almost fell forward into the dirt. I didn't just swing too soon – I practically met the ball halfway to the pitcher's mound. “Swings like a girl,” the pros said. In 1964, that was as mortal an offense as telling a guy he had cooties. When I did connect with the ball, I might as well have been wielding a feather duster. Do you know how demoralizing it is to step up to the plate only to have the outfield move in so close that they're behind you? I dreaded recess with all my heart and soul, so much so that I couldn't wait to get back to the classroom for civics. Civics! My hate-hate relationship with team sports had begun.

Then came junior high school, when recess became Phys Ed. and mindless activity became an entry on a report card. My parents were vehemently opposed to my participating, because (1) I wore bifocals and they couldn't afford to replace them, (2) I had no hearing in one ear and I guess they were afraid I would fall down on the other one and go deaf altogether, and (3) they had no more interest in athletics than I did and thought I should spend that hour studying. Well, they got me out of Phys. Ed., but they couldn't get me into the library. I became the official Towel Boy instead, handing out clean towels to the kids coming in off the field so they could dry themselves off after taking a shower. I might have been happy about not playing sports, but I was positively ecstatic over not having to shower with naked guys. All I needed was to be a spaz in a locker room full of pros. (By that time, the monikers had been relegated to the realm of “kid stuff,” but we knew what everyone was thinking.)

I remained Towel Boy for the rest of junior high and all through high school. I should have lettered in Towel Boy and gotten my own sweater with a big “T “on it. But glory was for those guys who actually accomplished real feats and got the girls, feats like tackling, passing, all that guy stuff. All I did finally was come in second in a county-wide essay contest in my senior year. Mrs. Massey, my English teacher, had encouraged me to enter, and I ended up winning a bunch of money and taking a free trip to Washington, D.C., with her. So it was all looked on as this big deal. But really, it was no sweat. All I had to do was write the essay, and I could do that without leaving my seat.

All this background info by way of explaining why I'm so ambivalent about sports. On the one hand, I like watching football on TV, basketball in person, and baseball any way. But part of me has always held back from becoming too knowledgeable. I'm certain that somewhere out there, all those former pros have grown up to be diehard fans who paint their torsos in team colors for the big game, never lose money on the office pool, and hurl obscenities at the Little League umpire when their kids get thrown out at home.

I take pride in not knowing any football positions besides quarterback, receiver, and punter. But I'll bet I enjoy a winning Hail Mary pass just as much as the next guy. In baseball, I don't know a spitball from, well, all those other kinds of ball, and it took me years to figure out exactly what a balk was. But you couldn't tear me away from the Safe when my Seattle Mariners were in town and I had some baseball money set aside. (I'll leave out all the other sports for now because it starts to get embarrassing.)

I guess what I'm saying is, you don't have to be an expert on something to enjoy it like one. I probably enjoyed writing this almost as much as King Felix enjoyed winning one for the M's this afternoon.  Even better, I didn't have to leave my seat.