I Was the Stinkiest of All the Cheeses

On Wednesday I was hanging out on the roof deck at Citizen after work having a beer with Mick and John for our weekly happy hour. As the waitress was serving our first round of drinks, I decided it was time to make my big announcement.

“I have something to tell you guys,” I said after taking a quick sip of the Bell’s Oberon set down in front of me.

“You got the job in China,” Mick interrupted.

“No.”

“You’re buying a place,” John announced.

“No. I –”

“You’re pregnant!” Mick said a little too loudly.

“Boob job!” exclaimed John.

I slumped my shoulders and sighed. Mick pulled out his blackberry to read an email, and I took this as a sign that I could finally proceed with my announcement.

“I’m not going to be able to make it to our Wednesday happy hours for the next two months because … I’ve signed up for a running course.”

“A what?” Mick asked looking up.

John took a sip of his beer.

“Running.”

“You already know how to run.”

“Technically yes, but last year I got shin splints, and I haven’t run for ages so …”

“Did you pay for it?” Mick asked.

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“Sixty dollars.”

“Sixty dollars!”

“It was my birthday present to myself.”

“What do you get?”

“What do you mean ‘what do I get’?”

“What do they give you?”

I sighed again.

“Instruction. You run as a group once a week and then run on your own three other times. By the end you’re supposed to be able to run for thirty minutes straight.”

“That’s it?”

“Well …” I stuttered.

Mick is the only person I know that can effortlessly make me feel flustered and unnerved. He’s an attorney, so I’d imagine it’s a useful skill to have.

“I mean. I’ve heard you meet a lot of people. And well. It’ll provide some structure to my exercise schedule. And. I’ve heard good things about it …”

I sounded so lame and needlessly defensive.

“I think it sounds great,” John said in an encouraging tone.

“Thanks. I’m excited.”

“Well. If you want, I can run with you sometimes during the week,” Mick stated blandly.

I smiled my thanks, and we were all quiet for a little bit.

“Have you ever noticed,” Mick suddenly began, “that tall people are bad at running?”

“Hey!”

“What? It’s true. I went running with Mark a couple times, and he sucked. So’d Walt. And Walt’s really athletic.”

“Alright. Let’s just talk about something else,” I turned to John, “How’s work?”

After that the subject changed, we finished our drinks, ordered another round and went home. The next day I started thinking about my past running experiences. Which led to me to consider my other brushes with athleticism. Which were few and far between. And mostly negative. But not always.

From as early as six years old I had a reputation in my family for being clumsy and un-athletic, especially when compared to my siblings. Before having children, my mother danced professionally as a ballerina, and she passed on her athletic ability to most of her offspring. Both sisters were excellent gymnasts and cheerleaders. My older brother played what seemed like every sport in high school and then was on the varsity track team at Auburn while in college.

Once it’d been established that I wasn’t going to be an athlete, my mother did what all good mothers do. She embraced my identified shortcoming by signing me up for piano lessons. Art classes. Encouraged me to join the math team. Bought me all the books I could possibly want to read. Drove several hours to Atlanta or Birmingham to take me to art museums and plays. Cried when I told her the school band was for nerds.*

*Sorry, but in my little southern high school it would have amounted to social suicide, and at fourteen I wasn’t confident enough to be different.

On occasion, I’d forget how terrible I was at sports and would decide to participate in an athletic undertaking. My parents always encouraged this, but I think deep down were thinking to themselves something along the lines of, ‘Oh no.’

As a six year-old, I spent most of my time chasing after my older brother and trying to trick him into thinking I was awesome. So, naturally, when he signed up for soccer camp that summer, I insisted upon doing the same. There was a camp in my town that was taught by some men brought over from the United Kingdom. I have no idea how they were recruited, but I think they were all in their early twenties. My guess is that they were offered a free trip to the U.S. in between studies. I wonder if they were surprised when they arrived to discover they’d be living in a small, dry** county in rural Alabama.

**No alcohol.

Each age group had two British guys overseeing it, and, somehow, I became the favorite of one of my instructors. Whenever we were walking from one field to the other, he would pick me up and give me a ride on his shoulders. Also, he would always insist that I play on his team (The Stinky Cheeses) and would frequently shout encouraging things at me as I frolicked around tripping over my soccer ball.

My favorite memories from soccer camp are the times we were sitting around listening to instruction on our technique. This portion of the day didn’t require any coordination, and everybody got to sit on top of a soccer ball while they listened. For some reason sitting on that soccer ball made me feel like an actual athlete. Much more so, than when I was running clumsily around the field.

I also loved my uniform. And the shin guards. Oh God! How I loved those shin guards. I thought they were the greatest invention of all time. I loved racing up to my brother after camp was over for the day and kicking the shit out of him then cracking up because the shin guard kept it from hurting. At one point towards the beginning of the summer I even talked my dad into putting my shin guards on under his socks so I could show him how it didn’t hurt. When I reared back to kick him, however, the too small guard lopped off to one side, and I ended up making full contact with his leg. He didn’t stay mad for very long.

On the last day of camp we had an awards ceremony. All of the camp attendees were ranked into three groups: gold, silver and bronze. My brother was awarded a gold, and I received a bronze. After they finished handing out the medals, they began giving out the special awards. My Dad stood behind me and rested his elbows on top of my shoulders as we were listening to the announcements.

When they got to the ‘Most Improved’ category for my age group, I was shocked when I heard my name. I tried to move forward to receive my plaque, but my dad wouldn’t let me out from under his grip.

I craned my neck to look up at him.

“They’re calling my name,” I said irritably and began using both hands to push against his belly.

“I don’t think so, honey.”

They said my name again.

“Lemme go,” I whined.

That time he’d heard it too and released me.

When I made it to the center of the field, my favorite soccer instructor handed me a plaque with my name on it. The local newspaper was taking a picture of all of the winners so he picked me up and put me on his shoulders for the photo. After we finished, he gave me a ride over to my dad where I clambered off of him while still clutching my bronze medal and ‘most improved’ plaque. As we were heading towards the car, I glanced down at my brother from my perch on top of my dad.

“I won two awards,” I announced.

My brother looked up and replied, “Most improved means you used to suck.”

“Does not.”

“Does to.”

“I won two awards,” I announced again, “and you only won one.”

That was the golden age of my athleticism. My apex. I peaked at six years old.

- watch mE bEnd it liKe beckham