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Mirror Magazine

Not the sporty type
By Roo
Sports: noun, activity that you can do for pleasure and that needs physical effort or skill. Usually done in special areas and according to fixed rules, proudly proclaims the dictionary.

But not to me. My ideal form of recreation is to lounge in a comfortable old armchair and glance through the pages of a recent bestseller.

Cricket, for example, seems to me a waste of time and valuable resources. Watching a bunch of middle-aged men running around to catch a ball that another such loony man had pushed by way of a wooden plank is not my idea of a fun time. Baseball - same story. Same sorry story. Okay I shall and will admit it - sports are not my forte. I am not a sporty person and that is what is due to my grave resentment of the subject.

Unfortunately though, all those around me seem to think that sports are a god given gift. My parents, my siblings, family friends, distant relations - they all have the same craze. The genes have thankfully or well, unfortunately not formed part of my DNA. And I am therefore once again the 'outcast'.

I tried, believe me, to indulge in sports. Swimming was first on the agenda, since whether or not I hoped to be a part of the Olympic Swimming Squad, I had to learn to swim. So I did. At the tender age of three and so many months I was gently pushed toward the water. I nearly drowned. And the pool was less than 12 inches deep! That should have made evident the fact that I did not posses the 'gene'. But through trial and error I learnt the breast stroke and found it well, quite nice. So swimming became a hobby. I would willingly rush to the swimming pool and swim a few lengths. I genuinely believe that swimming is good for you. But that is as far as my idea of swimming extends . I find it difficult to somehow believe that people can make a living out of the sport. Don't get me wrong - it's fun but not that much fun!

So I decided to move on to an activity away from water. Tennis was next. My dear sibling being quite proficient in that paved the way for me. It was deemed unnecessary to go in for professional lessons - since I was the 'lucky' one to have a genuine tennis person within the boundaries of my own home. And ignoramus that I am, I did not expect my dear sibling to charge me for his services.

But charge he did. And my allowance for a year happily made its way into his grimy pocket. Though it was not in vain. I learnt the forehand, backhand, volley and other such tennis jargon within a couple of minutes. But the practical side of it, I am yet to master. (And that thought has been in my mind for the past five or six years.)

At the end of my extensive training, my 'coach' pronounced me (very inspiringly) 'terrible' and that was that. Tennis could proceed toward the new millennium minus my participation.

That done, I tried my hand at 'Table Tennis'. Since I was now quite proficient at the other kind I naturally assumed that this was to be a breeze. But no, fate had other plans in store for me. The first ping pong ball (known hereafter as the P.P.B.) hit me straight on my left eye. The second hit my right eye. I was rushed to hospital and informed that I was suffering from a severe case of Tableotennisophobia. The prescription was to the point and stated - 'No more Table Tennis'.

Fine, so maybe individual sports were not me. What of team sports like basketball, netball and hockey? I decided I'd give them a try and since (thankfully) no distant relative was that familiar with the sport, I was sent for lessons held at school. No, that did not work either. I ended up passing the ball to every player except the one who it was supposed to be passed to. I did manage to dunk a few baskets during my short stint with basketball - but unfortunately the points all added up to the opposing teams total.

Worried, my parents decided that maybe I might be better at something like jogging. After all, they jogged on a daily basis and it wasn't bad. But what they didn't bargain on was 'me'. I dutifully went shopping and bought myself the perfect pair of what the salesman said was the 'very good running shoe, madam'. Early next morning I was unceremoniously yanked out of bed and asked to 'hurry up, we have to go.' I wore my all new jogging suit, complete with jogging band, jogging heart rate monitoring watch and brand new jogging shoes and left the house. Seeing my parents running a kilometre away from me should have told me something. But well, stubborn as I was, it didn't. They looked like the seasoned pair and I looked like the 'wannabe'.

I did jog, well.... walk that day. And I was feeling rather jubilant. After all, it's not everyday that one walks 10 kms (well maybe it was actually 2 km) in all that jogging gear. I had a hearty breakfast, went about my usual daily routine and slept - still feeling ecstatic. It was only when I woke up the following morning that I realised that maybe jogging was not for me. For, I couldn't get up. My legs were numb. My feet felt like they were on the verge of falling apart. I thought I was on my deathbed and feebly called somebody, anybody to write and witness my last will and testament. Only the dog came, nobody cared.

Now as I gaze sadly at the shoe rack at home I see that the scenario has not changed. My parents and my sibling's running shoes filthy with wear and tear are roughly placed on the top shelf and my 'very good running shoe' sparkling in all its glory is gently placed on the last. And I think to myself - Why not try pacing as I read, that should provide me with ample exercise!

N.B. - Anyone interested in a pair of brand new running shoes, (size five) please feel free to contact me.

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