Chapter 9: Jocks vs. Nerds

I don’t know how to throw.

You may be asking yourself, “How did this happen? Didn’t you have gym class? Why didn’t anyone teach you how to throw?”

Well, call it a case of slipping through the cracks. If kids can graduate high school without knowing how to read, then I suppose this gal can be 40-something, all grown up and not know how to throw.

My not-so-illustrious sporting career can be traced back to the summer between kindergarten and first grade, when I participated in something called Pee Wee League baseball. It was coed, with underhand pitching; the pitchers were actually the guys who ran the local recreation leagues. Those guys were totally great with kids, by the way. If a kid was standing too close to the plate or holding the bat wrong, they’d take the time to make the proper suggestions and corrections, but always in a positive way that wasn’t embarrassing. (And I should know, since sometimes I was that kid.)

I could actually hit the ball well enough that I got on base 90 percent of the time. That wasn’t really saying much, though, since kids that age can’t actually field the ball worth shit. But it made me feel good, and most weeks I’d even get my name in the paper under the illustrious rec league updates. That also meant that I’d get to see my name spelled incorrectly. Every. Single. Time. I was always Anne without an “e,” and some weeks they’d even mess up my last name, too. I can’t tell you how many times people had thought my last name was “Dress” instead of “Drees.” To this day, I’m overly thankful to people who actually take the second to ask me how my first name is spelled – with an “e” or without an “e.” (As for my married last name? Forget it. I automatically spell it for them before they even ask.)

My ineptitude landed me in right field (where else?) most of the time, which was pretty much the corner of shame. Every once in a while, I’d go to left field, but no matter what there was no way I was going to end up anywhere near the infield. Sure, I might have been able to catch or scoop up the ball, but what I did with the ball after I got it was the real problem. On the rare occasions that the ball even did come my way, my throw would land maybe 10 yards in front of me, if I was lucky. If I tried to throw it harder, my aim would suffer. I’ll never forget the one time when I needed to throw the ball home. I was between second and third base, probably because I had run up there from left field so I wouldn’t have to throw so far. My throw ended up slamming against the other team’s bullpen fence, where all of the kids cheered even louder as their base runner safely made it home with plenty of time to spare. Whoops. The good news was that I was too young and naive to let any of that cause me any great panic and anxiety. (That would come later in junior high, silly.)