Do you remember the last girl standing on the blacktop when teams were picked for kickball? That was me. My feeble attempts at hitting, kicking or catching anything flying in the air always ended badly with face plants, bumps, scrapes and a bruised ego.
In short, I was terrible at sports — or anything that required the tiniest amount of athleticism. This was frustrating for my parents, who were avid tennis players and spent most summers horseback riding, hiking or skiing the steep mountains of Montana. I tried tennis, but sweating on the courts and using my racket like a fly swatter at balls launched over the net was not my idea of fun.
My hands were better suited for holding the latest Nancy Drew book while lounging on a comfy couch in the air conditioning.
I was also the girl who brought a forged note from home ("severe menstrual cramps") excusing me from the rigors of the Presidential Physical Fitness Tests. After failing the push-up test the first time (my chin never made it to the bar) and costing my team points when I tripped over my own feet during a relay race, I vowed never to compete again.
No fitness badge or trophy was worth the anxiety and soul-crushing failure that put a bullseye on my back for school bullies. My competitive side appeared only when the music cart lady visited our class after lunch each day. I was REALLY good at shaking the tambourine! I avoided sports throughout my remaining school years and skipped the days that required anything more strenuous than a leisurely walk around the ball field. At that point, if napping were an Olympic sport, I would have been a gold medalist.
Ironically, the man I married was a natural athlete, much to my parents' delight. Mac excelled at any sport he tried, even conquering the black diamond slope after just one hour on the beginner's run as a first-time skier. I didn't bother strapping on a pair of skis that weekend because I wasn't about to embarrass myself on the beginner slope. Instead, I spent my afternoon cuddled up with a nice glass of Pinot Grigio by the lodge's massive fireplace.
By the time I reached my 60s, I'd spent the majority of my life sitting comfortably on the sidelines while everyone else in my circle of friends explored new sports. Though I did work out — Zumba classes a few days a week, walks through the park and online yoga — but nothing that required competitiveness or too much exertion. I knew my limits and stuck to them, unable to shake my old childhood insecurities of being athletically inefficient.
One night at an outdoor brewery, my son challenged me to a game of cornhole. I'd never played before and lost by a mile, but to my surprise, I didn't mind because I was having too much fun. Later that week, my husband brought home a cornhole set and offered to teach me a few tricks to improve my aim. We played in the backyard every weekend, and I became increasingly competitive. I wanted to win, and was confident that I could. Pretty soon, I was winning almost every round against Mac. I still couldn't beat my son's score, but finding something fairly sporty that I was good at was a relief. What other games or sports could I try?