In the Fourth grade I moved to another school in another part of the Dallas area, which might as well have been on the other side of the moon. Still to this day I can’t visualize myself in this part of the country and therefore have to ask a lot of gas station people for directions. Half of them gawk that I’m a MAN asking for directions in stubborn testosterone stereotype Texas where “real men” apparently don’t ask for directions; the other half can’t speak English and look at me with a blank look of ignorance that can only say “I hear you jibba-jabbering, but I walk across the street to my job at this gas station. I’m from butt-fuck Egypt and I can’t even give you directions to the freaking bathroom.” My other option factors in the anomaly that there is usually some sort of gas-guzzling minivan-driving soccer mom getting a fill-up outside most gas stations. A slightly overweight (but she’s dieting) big-haired, born-and-raised-in-this-10-square-mile-area (say that part really fast) of the city, who would love to give directions to me because she would be happy to talk to anyone that doesn’t speak in baby talk or talk down to her like her husband does and he works ALL the time anyway so she suspects he might be having an affair because all the kids she’s had, to make him not attracted to her plus she never even pictured having to stay in Texas, much less be driving a minivan full of brats that keep popping out of her, so she would love to talk to anyone who’s male and wants her opinion because her husband doesn’t pay attention or compliment her anymore.
So I usually just bite the bullet, drive around lost and find my way to wherever I’m going eventually.
Anyway, it was in the fourth grade when I was introduced to the fierce competition that always goes along with, and is encouraged heavily in, Texas sports. I probably thought at first that the extended summer had something to do with the drive for constant abusive outside activity to these slow talking folks, but after experiencing the summer seasons’ heated oppression it had to be something more primal that drove the natives, some sort of blood lust that would motivate them to worship high school football and fierce competition in general.
My favorite sport of choice in the fourth grade came from the enraptured feeling of pleasure I got playing kickball. Kickbalclass="underline" all the rules and physics of baseball without the legal liabilities of children hurtling small rock-hard objects at each other. I’ve always been moderately swift, moderately coordinated and uncharacteristically strong for a wiry white fella, so sports like baseball, volleyball, track and especially kickball were my bitches. In fourth grade Physical Education class Mrs. Keys would make us play kickball ALL the time. I became a kickball expert and knew how to exploit the weaknesses of my classmates to excel as much as anyone truly can in the pre-baseball sport.
One of Mrs. Keys’ children died when I was in the fifth grade. He was riding in the back of a pick-up truck and bounced out. I remember thinking that was a really terrible thing at the time and I remember my friend James telling my mother that at least Mrs. Keys had other children so it wasn’t a total loss. James with his amped up hyper-intelligence was always very pragmatic and callous because he was raised in a large Catholic family.
Anyway, we had a substitute for a while that led the P.E. class and she knew absolutely nothing about physical education of any sort. I’m sure it isn’t particularly hard, you either give the kids free reign or organize them into teams and let them beat the energy out of each other. This substitute had us playing kickball one time and when it was my turn I booted the ball way off into the distance, determined to go for the homerun. My competitive spirit was in full bloom and I was a blond-haired golden god who could run like the wind. It was close but the ball came in as I was rounding third base. I was running towards home plate and saw the kid catch the ball and try to get a grip on it to tag me out. Going full throttle I ran at him and as he prepared to tag my chest I went under him, hitting a patch of gravel, and sliding with my bare skin over the hot blacktop into home plate for the run. It totally fucked my shit up. I was crying and had to go see the nurse and tolerate her dabbing my entire fleshy leg in peroxide. I got patched up and sent back to the field only to find out that the sub had called me OUT, despite effectively avoiding the tag while sustaining my injury. I argued. I showed her my bloody leg. I practically pleaded with her as she just moved the game along to making my run’ count to no avail.
As I sat tripping in the field of the final dead show in California I had an epiphany watching the Grateful Dead’s graphic displays on giant television screens, while they played something or other I didn’t recognize. In that split second of time I remembered everything about what I just wrote down, finally realizing why I hated sports so much for all these years. What I thought was an unbiased educated dismissal of an entire community was actually only a response to an inadequacy from my past. I realized every bad sports memory I have was a device of my own creation as a result of my feelings from one single stupid incident. I would never have associated disliking sports with childhood trauma but once that thought was acknowledged I couldn’t turn away from the truth. I have been playa-hating, literally, for most of my life based on an elementary school memory so deeply rooted only the perfect combination of meditation and hallucinogens could have brought enlightenment to the surface. How can I hate something that simply is? All the experiences of my life have immersed me in the joy and complex simplicity of life so why am I devoting my angst and ire to something I have no control over?
So, I guess maybe I’m probably the only person in the world who learned to re-appreciate sports at a Grateful Dead concert.
The “Steal Your Face” with the San Francisco Giants logo in it. Everything finally made sense in that one instant, like I had made a connection to the world. It gave me a lot of things to think about. It helped let me give up my fear and wrong thoughts concerning sports. The bitterness left me. I even understood I didn’t need any more LSD. I had used it to get where I needed to be and now I have a bit of things to think about.