Tuesday, September 14, 2021 The Agony of Phy Ed and other Athletic Endeavors

Can anyone say “sedentary?” I’ll admit that I’ve never been a big fan of moving around a lot, being one of those people for whom the word “sedentary” is actually a positive thing. Give me a good book and a comfortable chair and I’m pretty much done for the day.

Gym class was never a favorite of mine, not being one of the naturally athletic kind. At my elementary school the gymnasium had fat ropes that dangled from the ceiling and we were supposed to learn how to climb them. There were a lot of monkeys in our class that no sooner touched the rope than they were merrily making their way to the top. How I envied those limber people. My experience was more on the order of trying to climb a greased pole. I couldn’t seem to get a good grasp on that rope and when I did, my arms lacked the necessary musculature to pull myself up.

We also used to do exercises to a funny little song called “Chicken Fat,’ sung by Robert Preston of Music Man fame. “Go you chicken fat, go….go you chicken fat, go.” I’m pretty sure that song would not make it past the Great Wall of Political Correctness that has been erected around our educational institutions today. I want you to stop reading this right now and go find the song on Youtube – it’s gotta be on there somewhere. It’s a rich experience that no one should miss.

Every year we’d have to endure a teaching session on square dancing, too. This was problematic because it meant holding hands with yucky boys. At a certain age, all boys were yucky and all of them had sweaty hands. There was no romance going on here, folks. I can’t be the only one who used to dread those hours.

Recess was composed of kids basically just running around, but sometimes a game of Bombardment, Red Rover, or Freeze Tag would spontaneously arise from the chaos. In a game of Bombardment, you had two teams of people facing off. One person had a ball, like the ones we used when playing kickball, which he/she would throw at the opposing team, hoping to hit someone below the waist. If you got hit, you were out. However, if you were so clever as to catch the ball, the person who threw it was out. If you hit someone above the waist, it as a wash – no one was out. The play would go back and forth as each team took turns and the last man standing won the game for his team. Kids like me were usually out in the early rounds. Some of the boys threw the ball really hard and it created a painful round welt on your skin. I think in all the games I played, I only caught the ball once, but it was a moment of supreme glory, since it had been thrown by one of the more athletic boys. He wore a look of stunned amazement and humiliation at being out of the game early on at the hands of a wimp.

Red Rover was similar in the sense that you had two teams opposing each other. The calling team would either link arms at the elbows or hold hands, trying to present somewhat of a “shield wall” to the other team and then would call, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Todd right over!” Todd would come barreling toward us at nearly warp speed with the determination to break through our wall. If he was successful, the two people whose link had broken were out of the game and if he didn’t get through, he was out. This was another game with a whole lot of potential for injury and pain. Sometimes the force of breaking through caused you to stumble and fall, skinning your knees or worse.

Freeze tag hasn’t changed much over the years, but I’ll explain it anyway, if I can remember how it goes. There were two teams, each with its own goal. If you were caught by a member of the other team, you had to stand frozen in position until someone from your team came along and unfroze you. I believe the object was to try to get to your goal without being caught. My memories of this game are a little more vague, so if you read different rules somewhere else, immediately discard what you learned here.

We played kickball, which was sort of like baseball except all the action was done with kicking a soccer-sized ball instead of hitting a baseball with a bat. Remember what I said about being wimpy? Well, I remember once playing and when it was my turn to kick, I’d kick with all my might and the ball wouldn’t even go as far as the pitcher. “No bunting!” the pitcher would shout, refusing to acknowledge that I might not have done it on purpose. After this happening several times in a row, the pitcher at last realized that my best effort was only going to result in bunt-worthy kicks and he let me proceed to base. How humiliating!

We also had the time-honored tradition of choosing two captains, and then the captains would take turns picking players for their teams. The best athletes would be chosen first, slowly making way for the last players, those who were at the bottom of the athletic barrel. I was almost always one of the last. Then came the great day that one of the teachers picked Mike Lindberg and me to be captains. Fist bumping hadn’t been invented yet, but Mike and I did whatever was the 1960’s equivalent, since he also was at the bottom of the athletic barrel. Oh, sweet revenge! We started off with fellow bottom dwellers and worked our way up to choosing the best athletes last. It may have been a hollow victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.

At the end of the school year at my elementary school, we had what was called “Field Day,” a day in which everyone would compete at various stations (long jump, 100-yard dash, high jump, etc.), like a mini-Olympics. Some sort of Presidential Fitness Award was on the line, as well as being able to get ribbons for first, second and third placement. I didn’t tend to compete well at these events, but always enjoyed them; it was a lot of fun, mostly because we got out of the classroom for the whole day. One year I got first place in the broad jump, another unexpected victory. I was beyond thrilled and began spinning a little fantasy that this was the beginning of an Olympic career for me. Gone were the days of athletic ineptitude – I had found my sport! It doesn’t hurt to dream, right? I kept that blue ribbon for a long time. I may actually still have it in a box in the storeroom. The phrase “faded glory” comes to mind.

This has been Tuesday True Stories with Lynniebeemuseoday.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning whistling a happy tune that I don’t have to try to climb any more ropes.