I am not a natural athlete. The only team sports I ever participated in were the school required phys-ed sports. I well recall running up and down the basketball court, praying the ball wouldn't come my way. In softball, I was the girl who daydreamed out in right field. When the volleyball would come directly to me and I'd no choice but to hit it, my touch would cause the ball to rise up and strike me in the face.
I have an abundance of slow-twitch muscle, poor hand-eye coordination and I was born without the important "win at all costs" gene. Once the 2 sides figure this out, I’m usually the last one picked. To me, joy in physical activity has come in the form of yoga, and swimming or running long distances. As it turns out, I rather enjoy being by myself.
Married to a husband who enjoys all sports, I've been inspired to improve my athletic abilities. I've looked to books, magazines, dvds and online sites for tips on how to improve. After much perusal I’ve come to accept: Some of us were meant to be Mia Hamm and others, like me, are best relegated to cooking ham.
I was a "sub" last year on the local women's bowling league. Due to a last minute dropout this year I found myself a member of a team.
Each ball I throw is delivered with great expectation and fervent hope. However, as it rolls closer to the pins it becomes apparent that expectation and hope are trumped by accuracy and form. I'm pretty certain that the few pins that do occasionally succumb, do so out of pity.
***
***
I worked for 20 years at a Catholic university where I met someone who would become a cherished friend and mentor. She was and remains a fiercely proud, Cuban-born, Roman Catholic. Each day she arrived an hour early, just so she could attend Mass at the chapel prior to work. She devotedly offered Catholic prayers, novenas, rosaries, and the lighting of votives to help friends in need. She swore it worked for her... and when her copious prayers didn't help she had another ace up her sleeve - Cuban Santeria. From her, I learned of syncretism, the combining of completely different, contradictory beliefs.
Once, within the confines of my office, I lost a critical document. I began frantically searching my desk, files, cabinets and the garbage can. From across the hall, she watched my fretful agitation, then said placidly, "We need a red string." "A red string?!" Ignoring my panic, she calmly walked to the supply room and returned with a length of red yarn. "Here! Tie this to your desk chair and tell that imp in a loud voice that you will not release him until he releases your paper." Out of sheer desperation, and hoping no other staff would happen by and witness me, I complied. Satisfied she returned to her office. I no sooner sat down at my desk, randomly picked up a stack of papers that I had thoroughly perused, over a dozen times in the past hours, when I found my lost document. It had been stuck to the bottom of the pile. Now, as if miraculously, it had released itself. I called out to my friend, "I found it!" She sprinted from her desk and said urgently, "Quick! Quick! Untie him! Untie him and thank him!"
As if I actually had some little imp tethered to my office chair. I removed the red yarn and mumbled my gratitude to the arm of my chair. Smiling smugly she made a motion of dusting off her hands and returned to her office.
***
One evening, our department was hosting a social for a very high ranking Catholic official. My job was to oversee the event. As the tall, dignified official and his entourage made their way around the room, greeting visitors, I noticed a large-boned woman with an unruly head of, not-recently-enough, dyed-red-hair that failed to hide two inches of gray roots. I recognized the frayed raincoat she wore, regardless of weather conditions. She was a neighborhood eccentric, who occasionally showed up on campus. She was eyeing the dignitary, looking for an opportunity to approach him. I made a move to intercept, but was too late. She'd latched onto the VIP's arm, looked up at him and said earnestly, while batting her eyelashes, "Doodle-ee-doo!"
With concern, the dignitary looked helplessly to his entourage. By then I'd reached the group, put my arm around the woman's shoulder and with promises of cookies directed her away. After filling a container with treats, I escorted her to campus security and they took her away. But not before, in the presence of my Cuban mentor, the crazy neighborhood, fiery-red-haired-raincoated kook pointed a crooked finger, from her gnarled hand in my direction and uttered a curse, calling for my demise.
With genuine horror my friend bade me, "Go immediately to the chapel and bless yourself with holy water and..." "Nonsense! I don't believe in curses." She took me by my lapels, looked me in the eye decrying, "Don't you see? It matters not if you believe! There are forces beyond us. Things we cannot explain. Not believing doesn't mean they're not there!" I shook my head, chuckled and returned to attending to the social.
Things were winding down and I took a breather, sitting down to check my cell phone for messages.
The cold water hit me directly in the face. In shock and gasping for breath, I looked up to see my Cuban mentor, breathless herself from a quick trip to and from the chapel's holy water font, holding a now-empty paper cup while uttering an anti-curse incantation.
***
I know now that I will improve my standing in the bowling league and not, mind you, because I go all by myself for extra practice every week, but because I cheer for everyone. I remain humble when I "accidentally" throw a strike or spare. And most important of all, I never, ever offer advice to another bowler, no matter how well meaning.
After watching me struggle recently, a teammate, who had bowled several frames exceedingly well, endeavored to offer me advice. "I know I shouldn't say anything, sweetheart, but you're kind of zig-zagging on your approach. Why don't you try starting more in the center." No response was able to form on my quivering lips. "Come on," she continued, "just give it a try. It can't hurt. I mean, you can't do any worse, right?" she chortled as she nudged me toward the lane.
Each ball I throw is delivered with great expectation and fervent hope. However, as it rolls closer to the pins it becomes apparent that expectation and hope are trumped by accuracy and form. I'm pretty certain that the few pins that do occasionally succumb, do so out of pity.
***
I read this week with fascination of recent scientific research in neuroplasticity that tells us that the human brain is physically changed over time by physical activity and by our own learning processes. We actually mold our brains via our perceptions and reactions. Just like "we are what we eat," we are what we do. For instance, experts say that reading abundant amounts of good literary fiction helps to build and hone our emotional intelligence. There is additional evidence of benefits to our acuity and creativity due to time spent daydreaming. Heck, if that's the case I'm probably near genius. Anyway, over the last 60 years, apparently, I have reshaped my frontal lobe to the point that my abilities are pretty much limited to empathy, reading, cooking, gardening and playing with my grandchildren. One would think that this knowledge would be a relief to me, as it explains why I fail at sports such as bowling and golf.
This weekend I also viewed, with interest, the Budweiser commercials that go something like this: "We'll never know if somehow, in someway, we can affect the outcome of a game… We all believe."
I worked for 20 years at a Catholic university where I met someone who would become a cherished friend and mentor. She was and remains a fiercely proud, Cuban-born, Roman Catholic. Each day she arrived an hour early, just so she could attend Mass at the chapel prior to work. She devotedly offered Catholic prayers, novenas, rosaries, and the lighting of votives to help friends in need. She swore it worked for her... and when her copious prayers didn't help she had another ace up her sleeve - Cuban Santeria. From her, I learned of syncretism, the combining of completely different, contradictory beliefs.
Once, within the confines of my office, I lost a critical document. I began frantically searching my desk, files, cabinets and the garbage can. From across the hall, she watched my fretful agitation, then said placidly, "We need a red string." "A red string?!" Ignoring my panic, she calmly walked to the supply room and returned with a length of red yarn. "Here! Tie this to your desk chair and tell that imp in a loud voice that you will not release him until he releases your paper." Out of sheer desperation, and hoping no other staff would happen by and witness me, I complied. Satisfied she returned to her office. I no sooner sat down at my desk, randomly picked up a stack of papers that I had thoroughly perused, over a dozen times in the past hours, when I found my lost document. It had been stuck to the bottom of the pile. Now, as if miraculously, it had released itself. I called out to my friend, "I found it!" She sprinted from her desk and said urgently, "Quick! Quick! Untie him! Untie him and thank him!"
As if I actually had some little imp tethered to my office chair. I removed the red yarn and mumbled my gratitude to the arm of my chair. Smiling smugly she made a motion of dusting off her hands and returned to her office.
***
One evening, our department was hosting a social for a very high ranking Catholic official. My job was to oversee the event. As the tall, dignified official and his entourage made their way around the room, greeting visitors, I noticed a large-boned woman with an unruly head of, not-recently-enough, dyed-red-hair that failed to hide two inches of gray roots. I recognized the frayed raincoat she wore, regardless of weather conditions. She was a neighborhood eccentric, who occasionally showed up on campus. She was eyeing the dignitary, looking for an opportunity to approach him. I made a move to intercept, but was too late. She'd latched onto the VIP's arm, looked up at him and said earnestly, while batting her eyelashes, "Doodle-ee-doo!"
With concern, the dignitary looked helplessly to his entourage. By then I'd reached the group, put my arm around the woman's shoulder and with promises of cookies directed her away. After filling a container with treats, I escorted her to campus security and they took her away. But not before, in the presence of my Cuban mentor, the crazy neighborhood, fiery-red-haired-raincoated kook pointed a crooked finger, from her gnarled hand in my direction and uttered a curse, calling for my demise.
With genuine horror my friend bade me, "Go immediately to the chapel and bless yourself with holy water and..." "Nonsense! I don't believe in curses." She took me by my lapels, looked me in the eye decrying, "Don't you see? It matters not if you believe! There are forces beyond us. Things we cannot explain. Not believing doesn't mean they're not there!" I shook my head, chuckled and returned to attending to the social.
Things were winding down and I took a breather, sitting down to check my cell phone for messages.
The cold water hit me directly in the face. In shock and gasping for breath, I looked up to see my Cuban mentor, breathless herself from a quick trip to and from the chapel's holy water font, holding a now-empty paper cup while uttering an anti-curse incantation.
***
I know now that I will improve my standing in the bowling league and not, mind you, because I go all by myself for extra practice every week, but because I cheer for everyone. I remain humble when I "accidentally" throw a strike or spare. And most important of all, I never, ever offer advice to another bowler, no matter how well meaning.
After watching me struggle recently, a teammate, who had bowled several frames exceedingly well, endeavored to offer me advice. "I know I shouldn't say anything, sweetheart, but you're kind of zig-zagging on your approach. Why don't you try starting more in the center." No response was able to form on my quivering lips. "Come on," she continued, "just give it a try. It can't hurt. I mean, you can't do any worse, right?" she chortled as she nudged me toward the lane.
My well-meaning teammate's next throw is a gutter ball. Next two frames she has bad splits and basically falls apart. I instantly begin to bowl much better. Oh, my dear Cuban shepherd, you have taught your protege well!
"It's only weird if it doesn't work." ~ Budweiser
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