The first thing I tried to do the summer after my sophomore year, when I registered for Gilford High, was to try to get out of taking gym. I had heard that students at Gilford were athletic, and this thought terrified me. It wasn't that I was against taking gym, or so out of shape I couldn't run laps or do jumping jacks (sadly, I now know what out-of-shape really is) but that I cannot play any kind of competitive sport, even for fun, because I can't keep track of the score or remember the rules. When I'm called upon to step in and play my part, I can't do it--I freeze. This may be, in part, genetic--I remember back in middle school, watching my father in a for-charity basketball game: someone passed him the ball and he ran with it, under his arm, like a football, to the other side of the court. We're not total clutzes--my dad can ride a horse bareback and Latin dance with the best of them--but as far as competitive sports are concerned, we are as bad as it gets.
How bad? When I was in seventh grade, in Andover, Massachusetts, I was placed in a "remedial" gym class. Only, to make it even more humiliating, they called it "special gym." We had to run something like a 40-minute mile as a requirement, for example, which seemed perfectly reasonable for the kids on crutches, but not for an able-bodied twelve-year-old girl. Then, at the Catholic Girls' school I attended before Gilford, where my classmates were pregnant or heavy smokers or would rather stab you with a nail file than play softball, I was by default no longer picked last for any teams.
But Gilford students were athletic, and I could no longer rely on the delinquency or morning sickness of my peers to save me. I had this great proposal for Dick Ayers, the principal (that was his real name, those of you who did not go to Gilford): I would go to Gilford Hills three times a week and work out with a trainer--and there happened to be two hunky new trainers there, named Adam and Clay, which would make the whole deal that much more appealing (I didn't tell Mr. Ayers this part, though). It seemed an ideal solution--I would avoid any team activities, and I could get my gym credits at the same time. My parents were even willing to pay for it. But no, Mr. Ayers didn't go for it, and I was stuck doing one more year of gym.
I don't remember much of this experience, except that I was glad when it was over. One vivid memory endures: Playing badminton in a gym rigged with multiple nets, against a sophomore girl. Neither of us knew how to keep score, so we just kept hitting the birdie back and forth (not to each other--I'd hit it, she'd pick it up off the ground, and over and over like that.) Then Mr. Pinkham, who was making his rounds, blew our cover. "What's the score?" He asked. We looked at each other, the sophomore girl and I. "What's the score?" he repeated.
We made up something completely random, like "40 to 32." He just looked at us, a look that said "Who are you and what are you doing in my gym?" and shook his head. But he didn't say it, and he moved on to the next pair while I triumphantly scored my 33rd point of the game.
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