K is for Kickball

Once upon a time, I loved PE--back when PE consisted of innocent games like tag, and jump rope, and four square.  But in sixth grade, I developed a burning hatred for PE that smolders within me to this day.

It's not that I didn't want to exercise.  I would've done a million jumping jacks if that was what they wanted.  No, I hated PE because all we ever did was play kickball.

We had two gym teachers.  One was tiny and alarmingly muscular; the other was morbidly obese.  At the beginning of each class, they led us through ten minutes of cursory sit-ups and toe-touches, then divided us into teams and barked, "Kickball today!" before adjourning to the other side of the gym for a 50-minute conversation.

Every kid at this school knew all the rules and regulations of kickball by instinct, except me.  It took me two months just to get a general sense of what was considered good and what was considered bad, and even then, I spent most of my time near the back of the gym, with no idea who was winning or losing, hoping with every fiber of my being that the ball wouldn't come toward me.

That ball was my arch nemesis.

In kickball, if you catch your opponent's ball before it hits the ground, they're automatically out.

But from an evolutionary perspective, if an object the size of your head is hurtling toward you, your immediate instinct is not to stand there with your arms spread wide.  Your immediate instinct is to cover your head and flee.

I could not bring myself to catch that ball.  Not once.

My teammates hated me.

But that's okay, because if the earth is ever pelted with blazing asteroids, I will have a distinct advantage.

So in the long run, I win.

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