More Agony than Thrill: I Was Never the Best Option for the Team

As both the only kid under 5 feet tall and by consensus the "worst player on the middle-school basketball team," it was officially decided that my job was to carry the heaviest equipment. n "Why do you let them push you around?" I heard from my fellow seventh-grade friends on the way to the away-game team bus. n "I'd do something, but they're eighth-graders," I answered, and went back to trying to lift the water cooler, picking it up, then dropping it two seconds later. "And they're muscular."

I've always loved sports, and have tried to be as involved in them as possible, playing on numerous school teams. While I've had some great moments on the teams I've been on, they haven't always given me the pure joy that sports often appear to do. In fact, as only a good but not great athlete, sometimes making the team was almost as bad as having never been on it.

I got used to the dead-arms and titty twisters?two of the highest and most complex forms of middle-school male affection?but the teasing was a little harder to take. I was frequently reminded that I didn't deserve to be on the team, followed by a flow of names of kids who apparently did deserve to make the team over me.

My teammates were quite entertained one day when I was caught in the locker room before a game putting on five pairs of my own shorts under the team shorts. The team shorts fell off my waist when I wore them, so I figured putting on multiple pairs beneath was the simple solution. Running down the court with my shorts at my ankles was an option, but I figured it would just give my peers even more material to use against me.

On another memorable occasion, the leader and best player on the basketball team, Blair, yelled to the front of the away-game bus, calling me back to sit next to him. I thought he was kidding, so I laughed and continued to cuddle with my precious water cooler. When he again ordered me to sit next to him, I decided he was probably serious, so I got up and carefully walked to the back of the bus where all the big kids sat, trying to guess what would be my next humiliating task. Blair told me to have a seat, and I awaited my punishment. After a couple minutes of harmless joking around?why hadn't I scored any points all season, what was with that airball in the last game, etc.?I thought my time was over. I got up and began my walk up to my home at the front of the bus when Blair pulled me back down.

"Ask Bobby when his exploding date is," he told me, giggling at his own piercing wit.

Bobby was the fat kid on the team. He wasn't a constant butt of jokes since he could play ball quite well despite his size. But fat jokes weren't rare, and it seemed like they hurt Bobby. The kid was always nice to me, probably realizing that with his large gut it would be all too easy for me to counter his verbal attacks with my own.

Blair's demand created a great dilemma for me: ask Bobby when he would explode and make him feel as I had many times so far during the season, or defy Blair's orders and actually stand up for myself.

Without really thinking, I made my move. I yelled, "Hey Bobby! When's your exploding date?!" followed by a quick, "Blair made me do it!" as I ran to the front of the bus, out of breath but safe next to my water cooler. That series of events got a good hard laugh from the gallery, including fat Bobby, who was more amused with my actions than he was hurt by the question. I had successfully made myself the punchline of the joke once again. I curled up in my seat and wished the trip would just end.

That would be the last of my sports anguish, I told myself firmly. And while I was never picked on like I was in seventh-grade basketball, I can't say the anguish really ended.

I played sports throughout much of high school, usually as a solid contributor to the teams, but never the star. In my senior year I played on the varsity soccer team. About midway through the season I earned a starting defensive spot, and for the games I started, I played great. Then, without warning, the coach read off the starters before a game one day and I wasn't on the list. I assumed I'd check into the game after a few minutes on the bench, but instead I only played once for about five minutes in those last five games of the season. I was devastated. Our team came in second in the league, but I couldn't enjoy it, feeling that I had been screwed, and for no good reason. I asked the coach why he took me out.

"Sorry, Jon, I just didn't think it was the best option for this team," was his explanation.

I decided that varsity soccer would be my last high school team. But a few months later, that determination flagged, and I decided, after taking a year off from the sport, to rekindle my baseball career and try out for the team. I made it, and got a reasonable amount of playing time in left field. But there was something new that season that I'd never felt before in my entire life of Little League and JV baseball: I dreaded the ball coming to me?definitely not the ideal mindset for an outfielder. I was terrified, and obsessed about the consequences and humiliation of not catching it.

There is no worse feeling in sports than missing a fly ball: the entire play relies on the fielder alone, and one miss means complete humiliation. Everyone may make mistakes, but no one is supposed to miss a fly ball. In basketball, you're considered a great player if you miss half the shots you take; in baseball, you're great if you make an out seven of the 10 times you're at bat. But in the outfield, you have to make the play every time. I pondered this comforting idea every time I was in the field.

About halfway through the season, in a game that would push us ahead in the league standings if we won, I was put into left field in the fifth inning. It was a rainy, freezing-cold day, and I had not warmed up at all. The game was tied. With two outs and a man on second base, the batter hit a deep line drive to me. I ran backwards, eyeing the ball all the way yet barely being able to feel my hand from the cold. As the ball came in, I put up my glove. The ball hit the top of my glove, bounced off my face and rolled onto the ground. "Fuck!" I yelled, loud as I could, as parents of the opposing team dropped their jaws in horror at the raucous leftfielder. I picked up the ball and tossed an off-target throw to the second baseman before I chucked my glove to the ground. I was taken out in the following inning. I brooded over the play for days, replaying in my head the ball that I had missed, asking the leftfield grass, "Why? Why?" during practices.

Sports is a self-esteem booster for some, and while it has usually been fun and rewarding, it's given me more than my share of stress, pain and embarrassment. But those feelings are beginning fade. Today, I'm attending a Division I university?I won't have to worry about making any of the teams.