When I was 10, I enjoyed schoolyard games. We used to go outside at recess and play baseball and soccer and romps of our own devising. Of course we were pleased when our team won, which was why nobody was really thrilled to be stuck with Stanley on their team, but then usually the other team got Henrietta, so it all worked out. And anyway, win or lose, tomorrow was another day and who cared anyway? Soon after this we got uniforms so that we could play schoolyard games with other schools and the visiting parents and such could tell who was on which team. Then somebody said we should play extra hard because now we were playing for the school. This made no sense to me, so I shrugged, put on my ugly blue shorts and mismatched pinafore and went off in a station wagon to play schoolyard games with strangers in the next town anyway.
Then I went to boarding school where we had a very complicated sports uniform which was a green tunic – cotton for the summer, wool for the winter – which was to be worn no more than 3 inches above the knee over a white camp shirt. White ankle socks were to be worn in the summer, green or black knee socks in the winter. We were assigned to opposing teams inside the school for the purposes of intra-mural sports conflict, and given rousing speeches on school pride and team loyalty for the purposes of extra-mural sports conflict. Since sports were a required part of boarding school life, I played their little games and sang their stupid songs, but there was no longer any pleasure in it. I could see absolutely no reason why I should invite bodily harm at the hands of incomprehensible zealots set upon mutilating all comers in the name of the institution that was teaching them Latin. Needless to say I was not included on the first line teams.
Eventually I did find a modest refuge from these bloodsports in gentler activities such as tennis and badminton. These had the added benefit of offering no off campus venues, so it was possible to pass the required sports time paddling non-lethal projectiles back and forth across a net, while chatting about more interesting things. When it was made clear that we were supposed to be trying to beat one another, keep score, improve our tactics and so forth, we nodded solemnly and carried on as usual, but offered up scores when the instructor came to glare at us.
There was a sports requirement at college too, but only for two years. The first semester was occupied with a thing called “basic motor skills” where we were taught how to walk without slouching and carry a suitcase. I can’t think how this filled a semester, but I clearly remember that it did and that I actually received a passing grade. After that schoolyard games were available of course, but there were also harmless things like modern dance which I tried for a semester with as much success as a hippopotamus might have at ballet school, but it passed the time. Archery was my closest approach to an enjoyable sport and filled the two remaining required semesters and then I was clear of sports requirements, and slammed the door with pleasure on all pointless, sweaty activities done in support of meaningless social entities.
It was about this time that I took up mountain climbing. My boyfriend owned a rope, and one of his roommates owned some hardware, but mostly we just clambered up steep rocky places and drank beer at the top. I didn’t realize at the time that this was a sport, or I would probably not have enjoyed it so much. At one time or another I have tried SCUBA diving, bicycling, hiking, most of which I enjoyed right up until they became fashionable at which point further participation involved enormous expenditure on scientifically formulated clothing and gear, licenses, permits, classes, clubs, regulations, and other accoutrements of a society in which anything worth doing is worth doing to excess.
Then one day I had an epiphany. A booming bass voice rumbled out from the sky, frightening my cats right out of their tiny minds, saying “So why the devil did you do any of that stuff? Was it just to keep fit? Was it all in a fruitless attempt to return to size 10? Was it in hopes that some day a reporter on a really dull day would ask you why you took up bungee jumping at the age of 87? No? Well why then?” Then the world was suddenly silent again and I went inside, put a cold cloth on my face, and thought about this.
When I awoke, the cats had returned, and I went out and bought a kayak. I have lived happily ever after.
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