The One Where I’m Awesome at Sports

In what is at most a brave display of my village’s progressive commitment to gender equity – and at least a fun excuse for the women to do something other than cook, clean, and fetch water – the ladies in my village are gearing up for a soccer match against a neighboring village. They have been practicing zealously, and I, of course, have been joining them. Since March Madness was such a downer this year, I’ve gotta get my sports fix somehow!

To my surprise, this turns out to be good old fashioned amateur sports kitsch at its finest. We have the usual cast of characters: The hyper-competitive Type-A one out for blood. The slow, heavyset one resigned to playing goalie. The whistle-happy coach offering correction after correction to these misfits, nobly fighting the battle that could never be won. The amused bystanders spouting commentary from the sidelines. And, of course, the one who gets picked last… none other than yours truly. I was hardly expecting to get picked – not wanting to get picked, preferring as always to provide moral support – but then someone yells out “Pak-yendu should play!” Everyone laughs, but agrees.

I am promptly called up from my spot on the sidelines, the novelty pick (“Look, the white girl can play!”). Since I have no actual “talent” or “athletic ability” to speak of, I rely on brute strength. Oh wait, I don’t have that either. But I do have shoes, which is more than anyone else on the field can say.

So out I go, jogging behind my team like a baby chick. I shuffle my feet around in the corner of the defensive side, avoiding the action at all costs. But then, watching the ladies scramble around one another and miss the ball like Charlie Brown, I gain some self-assurance: if ever there were a group of people as athletically challenged as me, it would be village women! Yeah! I can do this!

So there I see it: the ball. It is coming my way, as is a woman from the opposing team. I start racing her to it… and I get there! Woo! Go me! So I do what you do when you get to the ball: gather up all my strength, gear up to kick, eye on the ball, and…

Fall. Hard. Flat on my butt

As my little brother Nick would say, classic.

The crowd – hundreds of people, basically my entire village – descends into an uproar of laughter. Regaining my footing, I can’t help but crack up too. This way they can’t be laughing at me, right?