We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use. When I was a child, blowing gigantic bubble-gum bubbles was my idea of athleticism. Just the thought of team sports could reduce me to a quivering mass of anxieties: What if I got picked last? What if everyone made fun of me? By the time gym period rolled around, I would stumble onto the playground already defeated.
In high school I was caught cutting an entire semester of gym class. I told the principal that Aristotle believed gymnastics should be a matter of individual achievement, not team competition. The principal yawned and called my parents. I once asked a motivational speaker at one of these events what his own advice had wrought.
He spread his arms wide and looked around the audience beaming, as though preaching to a room full of insurance salespeople were proof of his success. The summer I was twelve, I fought my first and only fight. Word had gotten to me that Shirley, who lived down the street, said I had been talking about her behind her back β a classic pretext for a fight. One day I was riding my bike when I saw her walking toward my house with my supposed friend Wanda.
The deliberate manner in which they made their way down the block told me something was up. I sped home and ran inside to tell my mother that Wanda and Shirley were coming to beat me up.
I wanted to hide, but my mom sent me outside and locked the screen door behind me. She knew the rules of the street: you have to stand up for yourself. I had no choice but to sit in the yard and try to look cool. I watched them approach out of the corner of my eye. As they stood over me, I pretended to be fascinated by the grass. Shirley started throwing leaves and twigs in my hair, and I threw them back onto her feet.
