The sport of memory
Oct. 19th, 2007 10:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
randy_byersThis morning my brother updated me on the nephews' progress on their respective high school football teams (one plays on the varsity team, the other on junior varsity), and on the frustrations and anguish of watching your kids play in games. I was reminded of my own sports experiences as a kid, and of how I've forgotten why I lied to my parents about trying out for the basketball team in ninth grade.
I liked playing football and basketball as a kid, particularly basketball. When I played football it was mostly touch football with my friends, although I did play on the 7th grade football team at school. I was a scrawny kid, too small for the game, so I ended up being a scrub. I absolutely hated the, for me, pointless physical punishment of the practices, and I tried to quit the team. My parents wouldn't let me. I remember a tearful argument with them, and I think they didn't want me to quit in the face of adversity. Suck it up! Be a man! So I played out the season, coming in for the last five minutes of games that didn't matter. I always remember the game where I -- all ten pounds of me -- was put in at middle linebacker, for God's sake. The ref made some barking crack about how we were tackling like girls -- the horror! -- so next play I stepped into the gap as a running back twice my size came through, and next thing I knew I was on my back looking at the twirling stars. I've been dazed ever since!
Basketball was more fun, and I was better at it. In fifth and sixth grade I played one year on a Boys Club team and one year on a church league team, and I was a starting guard and a leading scorer on both teams. Fun! One game I couldn't play because I was sick, and the team lost. Some of my teammates came by the house later to visit me in my sickbed and told me I was missed; we would have won if I had played. Man, I felt important! In the seventh and eighth grade, I played on the junior high school team and was a bench-warmer. Not so much fun. I was beginning to sour on the whole jock culture, too, particularly the coaches, who didn't have much time for sensitive lads like myself and in fact yelled at me for making poor decisions. In ninth grade, I didn't try out for the team, but I told my parents that I had and that I hadn't made the cut. I no longer remember the mental process behind these decisions. I assume that it was such a painful and shameful thing for me that I blotted it from memory as soon as possible.
The next year, in high school, I for some reason decided to try out for the junior varsity team. Again, I can't remember why I changed my mind. Maybe I didn't know the coach, so hoped he was friendlier. Maybe I had regained confidence in my ability. Maybe I couldn't face the prospect of lying to my parents again. This time, however, it was true that I didn't make the cut, and I'll always remember the bridge party at our house where I overheard my mom complaining bitterly that the only reason was we hadn't sucked up to the coach like other kids and parents had. It was all politics and favoritism! I also remember my dad telling me that if I'd been at a smaller school, I would've had a better shot at playing and would have been a good player. I believed him, although I was ambivalent at the prospect.
Mostly, however, I remember being relieved that I was finally free of organized sports. My inner nerd had been gradually coming out of the closet anyway. Teachers were praising me for my writing. I was in the Honors Society and the French Club. While I hated math myself, some of my best friends were kicking ass in statewide math competitions. We called them math jocks, and we were proud of them. I was getting a lot of positive feedback for being smart, whereas it was years since I'd gotten any praise or encouragement for my athletic ability. Hell, when I decided not to take any math my senior year because I wasn't fit for calculus yet and didn't need anything further to get into college, one of the teachers came and made a special plea to me to take a different math class. That was in a subject-matter I feared and hated!
I continued to play basketball with my friends and one-on-one against my brother through high school, but I left even that behind when I got to college, except for a few required PE courses. One time in my junior year I played a pick-up game with some friends, including one who had tried out for the university team and almost made it as a walk-on, and I was completely schooled. I didn't belong on the same court with those guys -- even with my pot-smoking, beer-guzzling, acid-tripping best friend. That really bummed my high, in fact. It was the final nail in the coffin of any delusions I had about my own athletic abilities. At least it was one of the rare times in my life when I had a girlfriend around to salve my wounded ego. "Basketball doesn't matter, sweetheart. However, you're a lousy lover too!"
My brother was not only five years older than me, but he was always bigger than me too. Even when I'd grown into my more or less adult size, he was still 30 to 40 pounds heavier than I, and in great shape from being a wrestler (and a good one too). When we played one-on-one hoops, he'd almost always beat me, because when he drove to the basket I didn't have the mass or strength to stop him. However, when we went out to Yap in 2002, things had started to change, as my post-smoking, post-age-40, beer-guzzling paunch began to grow. We played a two-on-two game with the nephews, and he could no longer pound it in against me. We had ourselves a couple of brutal throw-downs! Revenge is a dish best served twenty years cold, I tell you, my Friends. Now it's funny to hear him agonizing over his kids' playing time and the play-calling of their coaches. Now maybe I understand my mom's strange bitterness better. We live through our kids, eh? But all I've got to live through are my memories.
I liked playing football and basketball as a kid, particularly basketball. When I played football it was mostly touch football with my friends, although I did play on the 7th grade football team at school. I was a scrawny kid, too small for the game, so I ended up being a scrub. I absolutely hated the, for me, pointless physical punishment of the practices, and I tried to quit the team. My parents wouldn't let me. I remember a tearful argument with them, and I think they didn't want me to quit in the face of adversity. Suck it up! Be a man! So I played out the season, coming in for the last five minutes of games that didn't matter. I always remember the game where I -- all ten pounds of me -- was put in at middle linebacker, for God's sake. The ref made some barking crack about how we were tackling like girls -- the horror! -- so next play I stepped into the gap as a running back twice my size came through, and next thing I knew I was on my back looking at the twirling stars. I've been dazed ever since!
Basketball was more fun, and I was better at it. In fifth and sixth grade I played one year on a Boys Club team and one year on a church league team, and I was a starting guard and a leading scorer on both teams. Fun! One game I couldn't play because I was sick, and the team lost. Some of my teammates came by the house later to visit me in my sickbed and told me I was missed; we would have won if I had played. Man, I felt important! In the seventh and eighth grade, I played on the junior high school team and was a bench-warmer. Not so much fun. I was beginning to sour on the whole jock culture, too, particularly the coaches, who didn't have much time for sensitive lads like myself and in fact yelled at me for making poor decisions. In ninth grade, I didn't try out for the team, but I told my parents that I had and that I hadn't made the cut. I no longer remember the mental process behind these decisions. I assume that it was such a painful and shameful thing for me that I blotted it from memory as soon as possible.
The next year, in high school, I for some reason decided to try out for the junior varsity team. Again, I can't remember why I changed my mind. Maybe I didn't know the coach, so hoped he was friendlier. Maybe I had regained confidence in my ability. Maybe I couldn't face the prospect of lying to my parents again. This time, however, it was true that I didn't make the cut, and I'll always remember the bridge party at our house where I overheard my mom complaining bitterly that the only reason was we hadn't sucked up to the coach like other kids and parents had. It was all politics and favoritism! I also remember my dad telling me that if I'd been at a smaller school, I would've had a better shot at playing and would have been a good player. I believed him, although I was ambivalent at the prospect.
Mostly, however, I remember being relieved that I was finally free of organized sports. My inner nerd had been gradually coming out of the closet anyway. Teachers were praising me for my writing. I was in the Honors Society and the French Club. While I hated math myself, some of my best friends were kicking ass in statewide math competitions. We called them math jocks, and we were proud of them. I was getting a lot of positive feedback for being smart, whereas it was years since I'd gotten any praise or encouragement for my athletic ability. Hell, when I decided not to take any math my senior year because I wasn't fit for calculus yet and didn't need anything further to get into college, one of the teachers came and made a special plea to me to take a different math class. That was in a subject-matter I feared and hated!
I continued to play basketball with my friends and one-on-one against my brother through high school, but I left even that behind when I got to college, except for a few required PE courses. One time in my junior year I played a pick-up game with some friends, including one who had tried out for the university team and almost made it as a walk-on, and I was completely schooled. I didn't belong on the same court with those guys -- even with my pot-smoking, beer-guzzling, acid-tripping best friend. That really bummed my high, in fact. It was the final nail in the coffin of any delusions I had about my own athletic abilities. At least it was one of the rare times in my life when I had a girlfriend around to salve my wounded ego. "Basketball doesn't matter, sweetheart. However, you're a lousy lover too!"
My brother was not only five years older than me, but he was always bigger than me too. Even when I'd grown into my more or less adult size, he was still 30 to 40 pounds heavier than I, and in great shape from being a wrestler (and a good one too). When we played one-on-one hoops, he'd almost always beat me, because when he drove to the basket I didn't have the mass or strength to stop him. However, when we went out to Yap in 2002, things had started to change, as my post-smoking, post-age-40, beer-guzzling paunch began to grow. We played a two-on-two game with the nephews, and he could no longer pound it in against me. We had ourselves a couple of brutal throw-downs! Revenge is a dish best served twenty years cold, I tell you, my Friends. Now it's funny to hear him agonizing over his kids' playing time and the play-calling of their coaches. Now maybe I understand my mom's strange bitterness better. We live through our kids, eh? But all I've got to live through are my memories.
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no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 10:56 pm (UTC)By the way, congrats on passing your exam. A scary thing to go through.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 11:02 pm (UTC)Thanks! I'm happy the breast scare is over.
no subject
Date: 2007-10-19 11:52 pm (UTC)