We are in the throes of baseball playoffs, the cramming of last homework and projects due for the end of the school year, the flurry of social commitments for adults and children including but not limited to three end-of-year parties, a mom's night out party, a board/spouse party, two baseball end-of-year parties, a soccer end-of-year party and several "oh my god I'm about to have my children 24/7 let's go out to lunch" gatherings (skipping those this year sorry).
None of this freaks me out as much as the email I got tonight.
Our Little League is organizing a Mom's softball game.
Instantly I am transported back to high school, to the PE class that was the bane of my existence, an absolute torture for me from 7th grade until graduation. I hated the smelly crowded locker room with no privacy, I hated the sadistic female teachers that looked more like men, I hated the dorky PE uniform, I hated being outside on the grass that I was allergic to, I hated not knowing how to play any of the games. I hated the fact that I couldn't catch, throw, or hit a ball of any kind. Even a vollyball. Or a tennis ball. Really.
Most of all I hated the process of picking teams. I was the LAST person chosen for any team (except for academic decathalon but that's another story) every single time teams were picked for my entire PE career. Even my best friend would pick me last. She played varsity basketball and softball, and ended up going to college on a field hockey scholarship so I guess that is not such a shocker. I tried everything I could think of to get out of PE. I claimed I had my period for the entire swimming section (didn't work), I claimed I needed the time to take another AP class (didn't work), I offered to work in the library (didn't work), I claimed I'd rather be a trainer and help tape the ankles of those more able-bodied. That kind of worked, but when I entered the room where the taping happens, with all the weight-lifting equipment and the smell of BO and rubber and metal, and then I saw the disgusting feet of the Jr. varsity football players, I think I might have fainted. I really couldn't do that either.
I so clearly remember standing out in the field during a softball game during the end of my senior year, praying the ball would not come anywhere near me, looking around at all the other loser kids who weren't playing any kind of sport, and wondering how this humiliating experience could possibly be necessary for me to graduate. I was one of the top students in my class, already accepted to Santa Clara University, and I was out there trying my best to avoid proving, once again, that I had absolutely no hand-eye coordination. How is it possible that I can solve a Rubik's cube but I have never ever hit the ball with the bat?
My boys are good at sports to the same degree that I was horrible at them.
So back to the Mom's Softball game. I'm a reasonably fit person. My kids are good baseball players. I could imagine that I would not be the last person picked for the team. I mean, these people didn't know me in high school. They might assume I could play. But then imagine the disappointment! The embarrassment! My husband and kids, and all the other parents and coaches laughing!
A Mom's softball game sounds like the stuff of nightmares. I will let those moms who were captains of their teams, who played sports, who can hit and catch a ball, get out there in cute outfits and run the bases. I'm out of town that weekend.