Balls (Essay)

My relationship with balls has always been hot and cold. Mostly cold. The tactical effort of throwing, catching, heaving, and batting never came to me.

As a child asked to strip off my shirt for a game of P.E. basketball, my doom would be sealed. I was the skinny one, picked last, or next to last, depending on which of the other ball-mishandler losers had successfully faked being sick that day.

For a betting person, I was a sure thing when it came to catching. If someone had said, “I’ll bet you a million dollars Jared won’t catch that football,” they might as well go to the store and collect because that thing was going to bounce off my face, guaranteed.

I remember when the curse finally broken for one magic moment. By a miracle just short of divine, I caught the football. It had bounced off my face already but I somehow got it back and started heading like hell for the end of the field. I made a touch down that day. I thought it was because I was a very fast runner. But laughter impairs one’s ability to run, jump, move, and tackle. And that day my classmates had no shortage of laughter after I had run, alone, to the wrong end of the field.

If I had my way, P.E. would be banned as a required academic course. I would legislate it right out of the school yard and a whole country of children who are afraid of catching balls wouldn’t have to do it anymore and a lot of therapists couches would be freed right up.