"It Hurts My Soul"

Last day of January! Hurrah and See Ya. Every time I make it through another January I feel like I can open my eyes a little bit wider, unclench my jaw, take a deep breath.

Alas, we are still in the thick of basketball season, which really only affects me because A - DH coaches YM basketball and B - sometimes my favorite shows get cancelled for a game. If it weren't for these things I could blissfully ignore it the way rich people ignore the existence of Wal-Mart. My friend Al enjoys sports, and if we ever get together as couples she and DH swap names and stats that mean nothing to me. I'm not always sure which sport they're discussing. I can sit on a couch staring directly at a TV with a basketball game on and my brain will instantly wander to something else. I absorb nothing except the squeak of rubber soles on hardwood and that annoying buzzer. I once told Al that the sound of basketball hurts my soul.

She leaned over to me in the middle of Sunday School a few weeks ago and asked, with a smirk, if I wanted to sign up for RS basketball. The words "Hell No" escaped my mouth before I even had time to self-edit. Al nearly had to leave the meeting she was laughing so hard. I decided I need to crack down on my language habits, but the fervency behind them was real. I really, really don't want to play basketball.

Fast forward to last Thursday when I went to the church for Visiting Teaching interviews (for any non-Mormon readers I realize I'm throwing out a lot of unfamiliar terms. Sorry.) and got done with my interview right as the RS basketball game was starting. Al was there and told me I should stay and watch. I saw someone was passing around an order form for Girl Scout Cookies, so I took a seat.

A woman in zebra stripes told everyone to line up. I don't know what that means but a formation was created and a whistle blown. I watched these women, of various ages and sizes, dribble, jog, and guard up and down the court and my heart began to pound vigorously in my chest. Someone shot and missed and I felt a lump form in my throat. Al was sitting out, on a chair next to me, and I told her that watching these people play basketball was dredging up some bad memories and that I thought I might cry. Saying it out loud was enough. I rushed outside, choking on the chill air. By the time I got home I was having a full panic attack. I cried and struggled to breathe.

My emotional response took me off guard. Something about those women playing basketball in the church gym took me back to my teenage days when I was forced, over and over again, to participate in sports that I not only played poorly, but didn't understand at all. I could never figure out how everyone else seemed to instinctively know rules and techniques. Everyone somehow knew a language I didn't speak. I felt like I was being dumped into the deep end of a pool repeatedly, and when I began to drown, I wasn't saved, I was mocked, even resented. Basketball, Volleyball, Soccer, Softball. All of my most terrifying, embarrassing, and stupid-feeling moments happened on a court or a field. I faked my period, feigned headaches, swallowed tears, and yet I was continually forced to play. "Not wanting to" wasn't an option. I was openly shunned, called names, and when we picked teams and I was the last girl standing, the team which should of got me told the other team, "You can have her."

It's no secret that I'm not a sports fan, but I think my feelings exceed simple preference. My experience on Thursday was mirrored last summer when everyone in DH's family convinced me to play kickball in the backyard. I didn't want to, but I hate being snotty, so I tried to be jovial and hopped in line. I got out on a technical rule that I'd never heard of before. Now, I know that this was just backyard kickball. There were four-year-olds playing, for heaven's sake! But that feeling of stupidity, of outsider-ness washed over me so strongly that I had to excuse myself and cry in the house. It's so deep-rooted, it takes me off guard whenever it surfaces.

This is a longish rant-thing and I apologize. The feelings I'm feeling at this moment, just recounting these experiences, are intense. My fingers are furious on the keys. I don't even have a point, really, except that basketball really, literally, somehow hurts my soul, and that I think I have some real, repressed psychosis going on. So yes, I do have a point, and here it is: Be kind. Be understanding, and to those who struggle, be extra kind.

And to the girl who called me an uncoordinated bitch in the ninth grade, I'm sure you are a very nice person.