I swear I’m a magnet for softballs, baseballs, basketballs, and soccer balls—and the magnet is aggressively pointed at my face. Which is actually tragic, because I’m a full-blown sports fanatic.
Like, I love sports. I’m watching, I’m invested, I’m yelling at the screen like I’m on the roster. I understand the rules, the plays, the drama. Mentally? I’m in the game. Physically? I’m a liability.
I have this very specific, slightly humbling wish: I wish I were naturally sporty. Not in a hardcore athlete way, just in that effortless “oh yeah I play sometimes” and then casually being good at it way. The kind of person who joins a random game and isn’t immediately dodging for survival.
But the second a ball is thrown at me, it’s over. Coordination gone. Survival instincts are not activated. I become the weakest link in real time.
It’s not that I wouldn’t try—I would. I’d love to be the kind of person who just jumps into a beach game, runs around, gets a little competitive, laughs it off. And I will try… but there’s always a 70% chance I’m also about to get hit by something.
So for now, I exist in this very specific identity: emotionally athletic, physically questionable. I’ll bring the energy, the commentary, the snacks, the team spirit. Just maybe… don’t pass me the ball
