From kindergarten to sixth grade, I played on a rec soccer team, and let me tell you, I was the shining star. I spent most of my time on the field picking at my nails and twirling my hair.
There I was on the soccer field for seven years, just trying to have a good time, but I kept getting put down.
Every time I tried to put the ball in the net, I missed because my kick wasn’t strong enough; every time I tried to defend the goal, the soccer ball would fly right through my legs.
Due to my lengthy list of accomplishments on the field, it is hard to admit I probably peaked in fourth grade when I scored my one and only goal of my soccer career.
Eventful and exciting, I know.
While it wasn’t for lack of trying, my thoughts on sports became very clear: I hate them.
Now, I only resent sports because they resent me. Sports discriminate against people, like me, who lack hand eye coordination, fancy footwork and speedy legs. It’s not my fault I wasn’t born with these skills; I can’t control my DNA.
I tried to work with the game, but the game didn’t want to work with me.
Gym class was the same. I’d put the effort in, but it yielded no results, especially in games like basketball, football and tennis.
Sports hated me.
So, as any defensive person would do, I started to give sports a taste of their own medicine. I gave hate right back and I allocated all my time to dance, a beautiful art.
But, as I took a step back from sports, I realized how absurd the world we live in is. People get so rowdy about sports whether they are a player, a fan, or parent.