A Football Story
My Junior Flag Football Hall of Fame moment
In middle school my P.E. class played flag football at the local park.
I was not an athletic kid.
No one taught me how to properly catch a football. Not my parents, not my gym teachers. (But don’t give my dad shit! We tossed around a baseball! And we sublimated our inborn American desire to bond over pigskin into playing and recording music together.)
Anyway, after our class made it to the park, gingerly avoiding hypodermic needles and multiple varieties of poop on the sidewalk, we’d play flag football.
I ran to receive the ball from a sports-equipped kid who was our go-to quarterback.
I wanted to catch it. No amount of musicianly identity or artsy pompousness toward jocks could prevent me from wanting to play well and to not embarrass myself. I didn’t want to crush the other team, I just wanted to be… good.
The ball flew toward me. (This eighth-grade Douche Jr. knew how to throw a bullet already?!)
Fearing the ball and, again, not knowing how to properly handle it, I stuck my arm out like this:
Wait, sorry, it was more like this:
Needless to say I did not complete the pass.
More importantly, my P.E. teacher Nate (who rules! good teacher! pro skateboarder) laughed his ass off. Not just at my failure, but at the spectacular unusual stupidness of my failure. Who tries to catch a football like that?
And when I see Nate around to this day, he usually still—lovingly—reminds me of the legendary un-catch. One arm stuck out. Go Team!
Happy football day, everybody.
xo,
Spencer
I can match your inglorious athletic moment, Spencer. In junior high PE basketball I was generally among the last picked for teams, but one memorable time I actually got control of the ball and was competently dribbling down the court, somewhat surprised that no one was coming after me. When I got to the basket and took my shot, the gym teacher finally blew her whistle and, after she managed to control her laughter, said, “Hey spazz, you’re at the wrong end of the court!” I honestly don’t remember if I made that basket (probably not) but I’ll never forgive that sadistic monster. Nowadays making a remark like that to an insecure eighth grade girl would probably be grounds for firing. But in 1963 things were different. But that kind of shit can scar you for life!
I loved to play football in our neighborhood when I was a kid, but had a tendency to catch the ball with my face (ala Marcia Brady). This would bend my wire-rim glasses into fatal unusable shapes, causing great consternation when I blindly returned home.
Your athleticism is perfectly expressed in your drumming. Precision, flair, timing, fine- and gross-motor control to rival any Sportsball hero! 😀