I almost called into a radio talk show this morning. The station I usually listen to when I don’t have my iPod hooked up to the stereo was having a discussion where they asked parents to call in and share stories about how their children were so bad at something they encouraged the kids to quit.

I have a story like that. Only, I wasn’t encouraged how most children these days are encouraged. My father was the Manager/Coach of my little league baseball team and saw right away that I had less than zero interest in the sport. During the try-outs, he did his best to get me interested, telling my brothers to play catch with me so that I could learn how to catch, hitting the ball to me, etc. When it came time for him to choose the team members, I was left sitting on the sidelines when the dust settled.

Yes, my coach father cut me from little league baseball.

I was thrilled. Instead, I was able to be the “equipment manager” and deal with the hunky umpires and the captains of the other teams. Plus, I still got the beautiful blue cap to wear and pretend I was still a member of the team.

I have to give my parents credit though. They kept trying to get me interested in sports. When I was just a wee one, (yes, I wasn’t always 6’5” tall), I participated in pee wee football. Perhaps “participated” is the wrong word to use, I was part of the team. Truth be told, again, I had a thing for the concept of the team, but I really loved the uniforms with all the padding and the shoulder pads. I would sit on the sidelines during practices and games, putting grass cuttings into the holes of my helmet in a now obviously foolish attempt at camouflaging myself. I wasn’t too worried though, my mother told me early on in the training season that I wouldn’t have to worry since I was probably never going to be put into the game anyway. Before I agreed to give this “football” thing a chance, I made her swear to me that I would never be put into a game and therefore never be injured or face the possibility of injury. You can imagine the wrath she paid when they put me into the game, citing some rule that all kids had to play in every game, good or bad.

It was close to a week before I would talk to her again, choosing instead to glare at her with hatred in my eyes at her betrayal of her promise. Her word was effectively worthless to my little pee wee football hating mind. I don’t remember if I was any good or not, or even if I enjoyed the game, because I was too busy being angry with her for her broken promise.

I kept trying too. I joined track and field and Jr Varsity football. I desperately wanted to try wrestling, but I was deathly afraid of rolling around on the mat with a sweaty opponent and having my uncontrollable teenage body betray my secret with a stiff reminder that I was different than the other boys on the team.

Eventually, I gave up my pursuit of athleticism in lieu of the arts. The theatre and photography called my name and I answered with all my heart, regardless of my talent.