Like Mini Golf, But Aggressive
Last week I took part in the school's Faculty/ Student Field Hockey Game, which is an annual event that doesn't benefit anything of which I am aware. It's just an excuse to try to see if any of the male teachers can be convinced to wear the traditional field hockey kilt.
Last week I took part in the school's Faculty/ Student Field Hockey Game, which is an annual event that doesn't benefit anything of which I am aware. It's just an excuse to try to see if any of the male teachers can be convinced to wear the traditional field hockey kilt.
Nobody wore a kilt this year, because the afternoon turned cold and dark. And then it started to rain. Then it started to rain harder. But we powered through and the ref called the game with only two minutes of play left-- after the faculty managed to tie up the score at 1-1.
But I'm sure the ref was totally objective.
The fact that I was playing in this game shocks me for several reasons. First, I barely know what field hockey is. I don't know if it's just not popular in the South or if my school just didn't have a team because they thought it was a bad idea to have more sports for girls than mandated by law. Or maybe they just didn't want to encourage Good Southern Ladies to learn to run around with sticks and whack the crap out of stuff.
Second, I was never good at any sports. I ran track because I thought I needed to have a sport on my resume for college applications, and track required me to remember minimal rules: run that way, very fast; if something gets in your way, turn. Even the field activities, shotput and discus, demanded a minimal amount of coordination: throw this heavy object as hard as you can, that way; if something gets in your way, wait until it's out of the way because, for the love of God, you could kill someone.
I was mediocre at best.
Because that was my attitude toward sports when I was still young and energetic, I was surprised to find myself running around on a field in the cold and rain, wielding a wooden stick, chasing a little yellow ball. Not just hanging around and taking up space, either. I was running back and forth. I fought for possession of the little yellow ball. I didn't even think to whine about how cold I was or stop to collapse to the ground in a panting heap.
Which is what I used to do after finishing last in the 800 meter.
This is what happens when you teach a grown-ass woman to fight. I figure if I can spend three hours a week kicking and punching the crap out of a heavy bag, in between sit-ups and inverted push ups (with gloves, and no, it's not a superpower) and thirty jumping jacks in thirty seconds and whatever other sadism sensei comes up with, then an hour running around in the rain with a stick should be no sweat.
I never would have thought I could do this-- and like it. Need it, even. I'm still not great at it (especially the inverted push ups with gloves... but that doesn't mean I don't have superpowers) but I'm also not a spaz anymore. And I can hit a ball with a stick in the rain. Toward the goal net. Just like miniature golf. But aggressive.
So here I am staring down the short dark tunnel to 40, looking at my Inner Athlete. This is probably not a big deal to anyone besides me, but at least I'm excited about it. A year ago I started taking steps to radically change the course of my life. Some of those changes-- the boat, learning to operate the boat, freelancing regularly-- are still works in progress. Being able to do multiple push-ups wasn't on the to-do list, but it's a change. It's progress. Instead of getting twisted up about reaching some imaginary destination, I'm enjoying the detours.
It also can't hurt to know how to kill a man with my elbow. Never know when that might come in handy.
Second, I was never good at any sports. I ran track because I thought I needed to have a sport on my resume for college applications, and track required me to remember minimal rules: run that way, very fast; if something gets in your way, turn. Even the field activities, shotput and discus, demanded a minimal amount of coordination: throw this heavy object as hard as you can, that way; if something gets in your way, wait until it's out of the way because, for the love of God, you could kill someone.
I was mediocre at best.
Because that was my attitude toward sports when I was still young and energetic, I was surprised to find myself running around on a field in the cold and rain, wielding a wooden stick, chasing a little yellow ball. Not just hanging around and taking up space, either. I was running back and forth. I fought for possession of the little yellow ball. I didn't even think to whine about how cold I was or stop to collapse to the ground in a panting heap.
Which is what I used to do after finishing last in the 800 meter.
This is what happens when you teach a grown-ass woman to fight. I figure if I can spend three hours a week kicking and punching the crap out of a heavy bag, in between sit-ups and inverted push ups (with gloves, and no, it's not a superpower) and thirty jumping jacks in thirty seconds and whatever other sadism sensei comes up with, then an hour running around in the rain with a stick should be no sweat.
I never would have thought I could do this-- and like it. Need it, even. I'm still not great at it (especially the inverted push ups with gloves... but that doesn't mean I don't have superpowers) but I'm also not a spaz anymore. And I can hit a ball with a stick in the rain. Toward the goal net. Just like miniature golf. But aggressive.
So here I am staring down the short dark tunnel to 40, looking at my Inner Athlete. This is probably not a big deal to anyone besides me, but at least I'm excited about it. A year ago I started taking steps to radically change the course of my life. Some of those changes-- the boat, learning to operate the boat, freelancing regularly-- are still works in progress. Being able to do multiple push-ups wasn't on the to-do list, but it's a change. It's progress. Instead of getting twisted up about reaching some imaginary destination, I'm enjoying the detours.
It also can't hurt to know how to kill a man with my elbow. Never know when that might come in handy.
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