Confessions of A Naughty Girl

I Am Really Bad With Balls

Okay, "naughty confession" time. I am really bad with balls. I know what you're thinking: "I can't believe she would write that," but if you bother to read the rest of this post, you'll realize that "balls" are a euphemism for sports, you dumbass.

My history of ball-badness dates back to...well, birth. My family, sister excluded, has never really been into sports, nor are we the happy-trails-let's-go-on-a-nature-hike kind of family. Don't get me wrong - we're tight as hell - but family bonding usually consists of eating, shopping, and tanning. Growing up, we had the first IBM computer model, and my dad was proud to show me how much fun playing "Family Feud" was on a DOS-based operating system. (And any boy that has ever been at my house will be only too happy to tell you about how my dad tries to show them his tablet PC.) Even now, if anyone challenged me to an Excel race to calculate the household CPM or the total GRP weight, I could knock your ass out with my formula-making wizardry (thanks, Pat), but if we ran a footrace, I'd keep up with you for about five paces and then hit the nearest Ben and Jerry's while you lapped me twice.

But here's the thing: I love sports. I really do. I love the competition, the energy, the primitive man-muscle battling it out to keep their balls within bounds, but I couldn't tell you what a side-out was if you offered to pay me in Seven jeans. And few people have ever tried to explain it to me, because they usually get bored after a few minutes, when I confuse the number of yards it takes to make a first down with the number of quarters in a basketball game. Let's face it - I was born without that sports chip in my brain. Sad, but true.

Anyway, my ball-busting continued in grade school, where I was usually the third- or second-to-last player picked in kickball, saved only by my meager popularity ranking, and the one inevitable fat kid who grew up to be really hot. In sixth grade, I did the cool thing and played U-12 soccer. I really just signed up because I liked wearing Umbros and Sambas, and it was pretty convenient to have sleepovers and get up for a game on Sundays. My soccer career barely lasted a season and ended when I scored on my own team. I mistook all the yelling for cheering.

In high school, I came to the realization that tennis was a good fit for me. The skirts were cute, and it was the only contact sport where I really knew when to hit the balls - because they'd be flying straight to my side of the court. So I hit them. One day, I hit one straight into the real balls of my tennis instructor at Springside. After doubling over in pain for five minutes and yelling "F*ck!" repeatedly, he politely critiqued that my backhand was strong, but my aim needed some work. (And I'm pretty sure that this comment was the $20 an hour talking.)

So now, if I work out (which hasn't been often enough lately, if at all), one can spot me at a gym, recognizable by the iPod earbuds, the bottled Fiji, and the bored/constipated wincing look of desperation on my face, hoping that if I screw my face up any tighter it will make the counter on the LifeFitness elliptical trainer go that much faster.

And now...even now, in my adult life, my ball-retardation plagues me. We are holding an office pool for the NCAA Playoffs, and since I really want money and like sports, I'm gonna give it a shot. But when I ditzily and casually mentioned to a co-worker that I thought the Cavs weren't too bad this year, I got an eyeroll and the kind of pathetic/malicious laugh that the employee at the DMV gives you when you tell them you lost your drivers' license at the bar and were too drunk and lazy to look for it, so you need them to put a rush on the re-issue.

Thankfully I have enlisted the help of a good friend, who I think really knows his shit when it comes to this kind of stuff, but he refuses to make me any guarantees, so if anyone is willing to share strategies for picks (other than uniform colors or calf muscles), I'd appreciate the help. I'll pay you back in chocolate malt balls, since those seem to be the ones I work best with. Can anyone resist a package of Whoppers?

posted by KA @ 11:12 PM