Athletic Only Child

I've never been what you might call "athletic." I mean, I've played sports. I've tried sports. I've even short bouts where I actually liked running or swimming, but, generally speaking, I've never been someone who regularly seeks physical exertion.

Even as a kid, I didn't really like playing outside, and I never wanted to join any sports teams. In high school, I joined the tennis team, a surprising occurrence considering my rather inauspicious intro to the world of tennis. My first lesson, at the age of thirteen, began with a sprained ankle. I fell. I fell while learning the forehand.

Take a moment to really let that lack of athleticism sink in. It's baffling.

So, why on earth did I join the tennis team? I think it might have been the cute skirts, or it might have been that one of my teachers told me I should. I wasn't any stinkin' good at it, and I never knew when our matches were, which led to forgetting my racket and the aforementioned cute skirt.

Whatever the case, that foray into the sports world was not the only time I attempted to be athletic. No, the one huge (almost incomprehensible) deviation from my normal unathletic being is that for three summers I went to a sports camp.

Shocking, right? I went, and I loved it. And, let me tell you, this wasn't any old wimpy camp. We're not talking about a day camp where kids play sports and are told that "It doesn't matter if you win or lose" and where nobody keeps score anyways or where everyone gets a ribbon. No, folks, we're talking about an almost month-long stay at a sports camp where we played sports and sang chants spelling out the word "competition." A camp where I learned my most beloved phrase, "Sacrifice your body for the good of the team." A camp where, after a soccer match, I actually had a bruise that showed the cleat marks of my opponent.

But, despite all my "Rah Rah" love of hardcore competition, there were a few areas that my wimpy self showed through. Namely, anything involving a ropes course or rock climbing or rappelling.

First, let me say that I don't even know how these things have grown in popularity. Let's get real, people. A ropes course is basically an obstacle course in the air. Obstacle courses are terrible on the ground, so what on earth inspired people to move it up in the air where there's the added danger of fall to one's death while participating in an obstacle course? Which, please remember, obstacle courses are not fun. They just aren't.

I guess I somewhat understand rock climbing. There's that whole "Man vs. Nature" thing that drives our desire to dominate the indomitable. I read Call of the Wild. I get it. But, rappelling? It occurs under two circumstances:

1. Someone has just climbed up the rock face and rappels to get back down. Fine. This one kind of makes sense. Sometimes, there's just no other way to get back to earth, and, for the love of all that is good, back to earth is exactly where we want to be.

2. Someone hikes to a spot that has a jumping off spot and rappels from there. This makes no sense. You have safely hiked to a lovely spot, and then you think the best thing to do is jump off.

Rappelling as it occurs in the second circumstance is not a sport. It is a cry for help.

However, despite the obvious reasons that a young person with a total lack of athleticism (and poor depth perception) should never be permitted on ropes courses or to go rock climbing or rappelling, I did all three of those things. Unfortunately for our purposes here, there remains only one extant photo. Fortunately, it's a good one. Here it is:

I am looking at the ground because that is where I want to be. I say that just in case you thought I was posing for this shot. No, not at all. It will probably not surprise you to know that I made it no further up that rock. I tried, but I was too wimpy. It probably also will not surprise you to see that I--the least athletic kid at sports camp--thought it was a god idea to go rock climbing while wearing Ralph Lauren deck shoes. Deck shoes.

The one thing you can't see, perhaps the most embarrassing part of the whole thing, is that when I got back down my cabin mates informed me that I had a hole in the back of my shorts.

Great. Deck shoes and and hole in my pants. That was my last rock climbing trip. Maybe the last one for my whole life.