O Sweet and Lovely Sport - Why Dust Thou Hate Me?

I think the title is pretty self-explanatory, actually.

While I'm no genius at maths, I suffer in science and tear my hair at art, it is sport that constantly haunts my darkest nightmares. Merely mention one of the many instuments of torture that PE teachers like to employ with a large grin and larger stomach, and I will run a mile screaming. And not very fast. Even speed evades me.

I've tried every trick in the book to escape from tortuous hours of running up and down a cold, blustery football pitch with sweaty hair and freezing legs, trying to chase a ball, of all things. And when you manage to get the ball (which is not often, in my case), do you keep it? Oh no, you kick it away from you. And usually in the wrong direction. And then your 'team' yell at you. Loudly.

I got tired of being the last one to be picked on the team. But can you walk out? Oh no. I employed every sick-routine in the history of man (and a few more of my own invention, I must admit), but for some unknown reason, my teacher refused to buy it. Maybe my acting skills need improving as well?

But I genuinely think that, of all the horrendous tortures that Sport has for me, a simple tennis ball is by far the most terrible. There is nothing more humiliating than failing to catch a small green ball as it comes whizzing towards you at the speed of light.

Actually, scrap that. There is. What's more humiliating is what I do. I duck. I run away from the ball. I climb up the walls in my desperation to escape a tennis ball.

So maybe now you understand why I prefer writing? Writing doesn't bash me over the head with a hockey stick, it doesn't appear suddenly out of nowhere and hit me in the face with a football, it doesn't insist on continuously hating me.

Although, to be honest, it's a mutual feeling. I'm not sure if I want to be good at Sport. Especially not now I've fled the terrors of the Football Pitch, the Gym Room and the all-powerful dreaded Tennis Court.

And good riddance.

The End

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