Shuttlecock Envy

Brace yourselves, you are not going to like what I am about to say.

I do not like sports.

You heard me. I am a full-blooded American male, yet I have no interest in athletics whatsoever. I don’t watch the Superbowl, or the World Series, or the Big Ten tournament, or whatever the big thing is for golf. I just don’t care. Shocking, I know. This is nothing new for me. I have never been an athletic guy. Since I was a child, I had no interest in sports, even though I am built like a quarterback. I never felt compelled to play sports, which led to many interesting challenges.

Growing up, I had this underlying assumption that there was something wrong with me. People never asked if I was involved in sports; they asked which sports I was involved in. Although the difference is subtle, it took a toll on me. Whenever I was unable to name a sports team I liked, I remember getting strange looks, and even the occasional gasp. Neighborhood dads punched me in the arm and invited me to come out to toss around the football. Declining their offer made me an outcast. I even remember one high school health teacher who publicly told me that I was not doing my duty to my school because I was not playing on the football team. I pretty much hated that class.

While most of these exchanges may have been light-hearted, they did not help me get past my feelings of inadequacy. Over time, I found myself harboring a deep resentment toward all athletes. I am over it now, of course. I am able to look back and hold nothing against those meat-head, steroid-driven, self-absorbed jerks. God has delivered me from my resentment! However, I must admit that I still have trouble trusting athletes, for anyone who is that comfortable naked makes me leery (They won’t give you the time of day anywhere else, but once they hit the locker room and disrobe they want to discuss Nietzsche with you. What is that about?).

I don’t want to sound like I am whining about my sad life, but…well, I guess I am whining. Regardless, I do want everyone to catch this simple truth: all those feelings of inadequacy and insecurity brought on by teasing or undue criticism; they do not go away. If anything, they withdraw for a while to wait for a more opportune time to resurface. A lot of you already know this.

You see, at the university I attend, the powers that be have deemed it necessary for each student to enroll in a physical education elective for one semester. Basically, this means I spend my valuable tuition dollars to retake high school gym class all over again. Woot! I decided early on that, since I had no choice but to submit to this requirement, I would take whichever class had the lowest registration fee. I guess that makes me cheap and non-athletic. And so, I found my self enrolled in a college-level badminton course. Yes, badminton.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with the game, I will provide a brief description. Badminton is a sport designed to make grown men look like complete idiots. Each player is given a thin, lightweight racket that feels like it could snap at any moment. The object of the game is to smack a feathered ball thingy back and forth across the court. This may sound easy, but an underground society of gym teachers has secretly trained the “birdie” to dodge your racket at all costs. As the game progresses, you swing wildly in attempt to return the serve to your opponent. After each stroke, it is customary to turn around and pick up the birdie, which will most likely be nesting peacefully on the floor behind you. When you finally make contact with the birdie, a pesky net along the center of the court ensures that it never reaches your opponent. The game goes on like this for about an eternity and a half, and then you get to switch partners.

So, here I am, a grown adult in the midst of other grown adults learning to play this stupid game. A few days into the course, I noticed something interesting. All of my classmates were athletes who had taken this class to fulfill their own major requirements. They were all track runners and basketball players, baseball pitchers and football quarterbacks. They came to class every day in jogging suits and designer shoes. I was wearing jean shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. My shoes were the only ones that left black marks on the gym floor, so I was called out in front of the group for not having the proper footwear. I didn’t even wear a cup. Suddenly, I was an awkward junior high student all over again.

Each day we played, I sensed my opponent’s superiority and found myself embarrassed over my poor performance. I was certain that I was the worst player in the room and that everyone knew it. A missed shot became a rushed apology for wasting time in returning the birdie. A poor serve became a laughable spectacle that I was sure drew attention from the neighboring court. The red never left my face as I spoke under my breath, justifying my errors to myself.

“You could have had that one if you moved faster,” they’d say.

“Sorry,” I’d reply with my eyes on the floor. Then I’d make some excuse, like losing it in the gym lights or slipping on the floor.

“Ouch! I think I sprained my self-esteem!”

I lost game after game, and I know it sounds weird, but my spirits sank lower by the day. I was paired with the “poor players”, as the instructor called them. I was the only guy frequently sent to play on the girls’ court. I spent a lot of time playing the Korean exchange student who silently smiled as she drove the birdie into the floor right next to me. I felt like a complete loser.

“Wait a minute!” I’d say to myself, “You are an adult! Why is it that a silly game of badminton can bring you so far down? You are smart and successful and many people love you! There is nothing wrong with being non-athletic. You have no reason to be insecure! Stop feeling worthless over something so trivial!”

Try as I might, that didn’t work. Those scars from my childhood were reopened by just a few snide remarks, sideways looks, or stifled giggles. And for some reason, I had absolutely no control over being reduced to the fat kid who got picked last for dodge ball. It was the strangest phenomenon: a secure, independent adult being transformed into an insecure, dependent child in a matter of seconds. I actually dreaded going to class.

And when things like this begin to happen, I get mad. I get very mad. I get so mad I am not even sure how to express it. Seriously, how can I convey this to you? Let’s just say, I get so mad I could kick a puppy. I could take a small puppy and punt him across a field. That is how mad I get. Or, do you remember the Super Mario Brothers video game, how those tiny mushrooms would stomp around all pissed off waiting for a chance to kill you? I get as pissed off as they were. Or, do you know how frustrated you feel every time you realize that Jim and Pam are both working at Dunder Mifflin Scranton again, but there’s no sign of them getting back together? Well, I feel like that every day!

Again, I find myself resenting the athletes for being good at what they do. I get mad at myself for not being as good as they are. And I get mad at everyone in general for making me feel like I’m less of a man, even though very few people ever intended to make me feel that way. Silly, isn’t it? I know that it is illogical and immature to question my value as a human based on a gym class, but to this day I still have virtually no control over it. I’m trying to figure it out, but it is kind of like trying to assemble a garage sale jigsaw puzzle: it takes a lot of time and some of the pieces are still missing.

I don’t think it is fair that I was considered to be less of a man because I was not into sports. But what I find more startling is the long-term effect of such treatment. Just when I thought it was safe to step out of the prison of imposed boundaries to freely live my life, I found myself revisiting pain and discomfort from years past. Granted, I am no longer paralyzed by it, and my feelings of self-consciousness are not nearly as debilitating as they were in junior high. But the feelings are still there.

And somehow, I think this speaks volumes about the human condition. We all search desperately for love and acceptance, whether we admit it or not. Finding Jesus doesn’t magically erase our insecurities all at once, especially when past scars run deep. Eventually, we spend more time in horizontal comparison than in vertical relation. However, I am learning that things like badminton can help us along by breaking us and making us needy. Once you are broken, there’s really only one place to turn. And that place is sufficient.

Enough has been said, I think. Most of you agree. Others think I am just whining (freaking athletes). If you want to talk this over further, feel free to swing by the locker room. I know that’s not where I belong, but what can you do? We all end up in the locker room from time to time. So, I’ve decided to stay there for a while, working on this insecurity thing.

You’re welcome to join me. But if you do, come naked. It might help.