In true nerd tradition, I was always, always, always picked last for sports at school. I think the consensus on that is that it's supposed to scar you for life, but in hindsight, it really wasn't that bad. I mean, I'm not saying it was pleasant; it definitely sucks to be the last person standing there when everyone else has been deemed more valuable than you are, but it was never unexpected and it didn't ever last long. I was terrible at sports. Everyone knew me, and they knew that I was terrible at sports. I wouldn't have put myself on a team, either.
What actually was traumatizing was that our (female) gym teachers, in an effort to keep the nerdy kids from being so downtrodden, would pay attention to who consistently got picked last for teams, and then make them team captains, so that instead of not being chosen by others, we would get to do all the choosing. To an adolescent girl who hates physical exertion, this is like being put in front of an assortment of Hitler Youth and fellow Jews and being asked to choose which ones are going to accompany you to Auschwitz. I mean, the Jews are your friends and all, but they're already marked to go down. And if you pick the Nazis, thinking they'll protect you, you're looking at a lot of locker room wedgies and boogers in your food. In other words, we had the option of picking a friendly team that would never win or a winning team that would pretty much exclude you. I honestly don't remember what kind of team I put together, but even now I can close my eyes and see the disgust on the faces of girls who were regional soccer champions.
If you're reading this blog, you may or may not have put together the fact that the reason I'm taking this particular stroll down Suppressed Memory Lane is that the NFL Draft begins tomorrow. All the top college players (I have no idea whether graduation is actually a requirement, but it seems to be implied) will be sitting next to their phones in anticipation as the General Managers of all 32 NFL Teams gather together in a room that I can only imagine looks like the United Nations conference room from the original Adam West Batman Movie. Maybe darker. Anyway, these guys will spend three days going around in a circle choosing college players to pull for their teams until three days are up or someone tries to slip in a made-up player (it was ruled in 1978 that imaginary players have an unfair advantage and are ineligible for the draft).
There are loads of mock drafts all over the internet as everyone tries to guess who will actually be chosen and in what order, but I'm having a hard enough time following the guys who already play for the NFL, so as far as I'm concerned, one college player is as good as another, so I wish each and every one of them the vaguest of good luck.
Except for Golden Tate, who I feel can only ever truly be at home with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. I really want his nickname to be “the Cabin Boy.”
No comments:
Post a Comment