Super Bowl XLII and Gym Class

A bunch of us guys were sitting around the office this

morning, on one of our many unauthorized coffee breaks,

discussing the more macho topics of the world, including

how much tarragon to use in chicken peppercini; how much we

adored Winona Ryder in “Little Women”; and whether Bob’s

sweater went with his shoes. Just kidding. We were

talking sports. In particular, Superbowl XLII, where the

New York Giants squeaked by the New England Patriots by a score of 17-14. An exciting game, to say the least.

I’d like to congratulate the underdog Giants and to personally thank Eli Manning for reminding me that I have a coronary condition. I’d also like to say that the Patriots put up a good fight, even though Tom Brady was sacked more than the apples at the A&P checkout.

I guess the point that I’m trying to make is I like sports,

but only to the point to where I’m interested if the local

teams are having a winning season. From there, my mind

starts to wander.

The reason I’m not an easy-chair-sittin’, beer-sippin’,

cigar-smokin’, feet-on-the-Ottoman-restin’ sports fanatic

stems from my school days and my infinite dislike of gym

class.

 
In school, I was convinced that the cooler you were, the

more coordinated you were. I was not cool. I was the one

who, when it came time to choose up sides to play games,

didn’t get picked until everyone else got picked, and that

included Bobby Taylor’s dog.

Team Captain #1: You’ve got Megill.

Team Captain #2: I don’t want him. I’ll take that shrub

over there.

(Not what one would call a real confidence builder.)

Gym class was always a nightmare for me. I remember, in

junior high school, we were playing baseball and I got

stuck out in right field. That’s where they always stick

the bad players, because it’s unlikely that a ball would

make it that far. You often see right fielders, out there,

playing solitaire on the ground, or cooking a steak over an

open flame.

Anyway, it was the bottom of the ninth, two outs and all

our team had to do was get this last guy out.

Unfortunately, it was Tony DeGrassi, an eighth grade mutant

with a pituitary problem who, as you might have guessed,

hit a high, fly ball right to me.

In the movies, I would have shown great fear on my face as

I stuck my glove in the air, and with beads of perspiration

pouring down from my forehead, have the ball land in my

glove. Well, that’s exactly what I did… except the ball

landed ten feet behind me.

The other team scored three runs and won the game. My team

showed their appreciation for my vigilant effort by

shouting unusual and creative names at me. Many of them

not fit for publication in this column.

The scene in the locker room was even more devastating with

laughing, more name calling and being on the receiving end

of some humiliating towel-snapping. Even Mr. Talbot, my

gym teacher, who always used to call me “Magilla Gorilla”,

joined in the fun. I couldn’t have felt any worse.

I did the only thing I knew I could do to make myself feel

a little better and justified. While everyone was in the

showers, I grabbed as many unlocked combination locks off

the lockers, switched them around and locked them.

I can still remember walking down the hall to my next class

and seeing Mr. Talbot running down the hall, in the

opposite direction, mumbling under his breath and carrying

a large set of bolt cutters.

Revenge is sweet.