The Tooth About TV Tag

Back in elementary school, there was a popular game called "TV Tag", where, instead of a base, you had to touch the ground with both hands, stick out one leg for balance, and yell out a TV show before the tagger got you.

The one rule was that you could never repeat a show once someone yelled it, and if you couldn't think of one, you ran for your life until you could.

At the time, my best friend, Laura Church, who had the same birthday as me, would play on the school playground during recess or in the morning before the line-up bell. 

One morning, the tagger was trying to catch us. Laura was ahead of me, and I looked behind me to see how far the tagger was. Unfortunately, Laura picked that time to touch the ground and yell out a show, sticking her leg out. 

Down I went, hitting the ground not with my hands, but my face, specifically, my two front teeth.

Crack.

I felt my teeth hit the concrete, and my head snapped back a little. I tasted blood, and I could feel cold air on my teeth that made them hurt.

Lip split and face scraped, I stood and realized I had a lovely triangle-shaped hole in my two front teeth. Laura and the other students stopped in shock, and the school guardian ran over to see what had happened. She took me to the nurse right away.

Some kids looked at me enviously in the hallway, knowing the event warranted the rest of the day off from school.

No one was able to find the shards of my teeth, and I wasn't sure they could put them back in place anyway. I wondered if the hole would let me make those loud whistles people did at sports events, but when I tried, it didn't work. Bummer.

My mom was called, and off to an emergency trip to the dentist I went (back in those days, you were seen right away), and during the ride, my tongue found the empty space fascinating. We arrived at the dentist, and I got a new partial set of fillings and something from the goody box he had when a patient behaved. By the time it was done, all you noticed was my fat lip and a couple of scrapes.

I didn't care. I had a new toy, and Mom took me out for fries and chicken nuggets.

After that, the kids agreed to squat instead of sticking out a leg when playing TV Tag. It made the game a bit more challenging and often more fun; It wasn't easy to stop short and squat with your hands on the ground after running full tilt. Sometimes the target fell over into a roll, and the tagger had to leapfrog over or become another school injury statistic. 

Laura and I still played TV Tag until the end of the school year. I never saw her after we graduated from fifth grade, and I never blamed her for the accident, because that's what it was. I wish adults were as forgiving as children. Maybe that's why God said to be like them.

Although TV Tag in my late 50s would probably require a medical team on the sidelines! 

Gym Class Superpower

 Last week's post was about what I couldn't do in gym class, which was, unfortunately, a lot.

I couldn't do chin-ups, climb the rope, or run very fast (although the boys always watched when I did), and I was absolutely abysmal at baseball. No one told me I had to put the glove on my non-throwing hand. Have you ever tried throwing a baseball with the glove on? I dare you to try — it's not easy, and the ball doesn't go far.

So, I was always picked last for most team events, basically the 'default' player who wasn't chosen, but fell to the opposite team that chose last. Then we were introduced to Tug-of-War. 

The biggest, tallest, and strongest kids were usually placed at the end, called the Anchor, and that kid was the one who usually helped the team stay behind the Red Line of Death. My team groaned when I was defaulted to them, and though I wasn't fat by any means at the time, my weight was more than the average for a 12-year-old, well-developed, curvy, and I had thick muscles on my legs and thighs. Leg strength was what was needed for this sport, so they made me Anchor, hoping they wouldn't lose within the first few seconds.

I was determined to show them a thing or two. 

One trick that always worked well for me was quickly running to the bathroom before class started and wiping down the bottom of my sneakers with a damp paper towel. This gave me more grip on the polished gym floor when running or performing other activities that required speed or fast turns. 

Done.

I got in my place, took the thick rope in my hands, and wrapped it behind my back, making sure my grip was firm.

The whistle blew, and I whipped around, facing away from the team, and leaned forward hard, using everything I had with the rope wrapped fully around my waist. I'd made my first few hard-earned steps when the whistle blew.

"Stop! Back to place!" yelled the gym teacher. "No one is allowed to turn around. Face forward to the center only!"

Crud. That was a rule?

I wasn't sure if I was the only one who inadvertently broke the rules, but I was glad he didn't single me out. But he didn't say anything about the rope, other than a slight shaking of his head when he saw me wrap it fully around my waist again. 

I formed a different strategy. 

The whistle blew. 

I got a firm grip on the rope, leaned back, and bent my knees, letting all my weight rest on my legs and hips, not depending on my arm strength. My sneakers held fast as I pulled back as hard as I could, keeping my arms straight but loose.

I could feel the rope tension fighting me at first, then a slight slacking before pulling taut again. Every time it went slack, I did the opposite of my classmates and pulled harder, instead of trying to get a better grip.

The red rag tied in the center of the rope shifted to our side of the Red Line of Death inch by inch. 

The whistle blew. We won!

Cheers from my team as they let go of the rope right before I was done pulling, I squeaked in surprise and fell right on my butt. I was a little embarrassed when they laughed at me, but it didn't matter as much because we all realized I had a gym class superpower. 

I was still the weird kid in the class, but whenever we were scheduled for Tug-of-War, I was the first one picked. And it felt good. I knew the reason they chose me, but I didn't care — because I had a skill they needed, and it was nice not being last for once.

Not everyone is built to fit into everyone else's expectations. I knew I would never be a ballerina, play golf, or be a sports star. But if someone needed a push to get their car out of a snowbank, or needed something heavy moved a short distance, I was your gal. 'Strength like bull,' I'd say, in a Russian accent to my friends when they needed help, but after that expenditure of energy, I'd need to rest before I could do it again.

Play to your strengths. Know your weaknesses and don't cater to others' idea of what you're capable (or not capable) of. Be you, and be blessed!

The Golf Lesson

Back in my middle school days, when we used to call physical education Gym Class, we also had lessons on a multitude of skills for those who weren't athletically inclined, and one of those, to the chagrin of my gym teacher, was golf.

Each of us, in our gym rompers — outfits more like giant, ill-fitting royal blue onesies with elastic thigh bands so tight they almost qualified as tourniquets — was given a golf club and a ball and told to use self-control until the teacher could give instructions.

That lasted about 3.2 seconds. It took another twenty minutes for my classmates to retrieve their errant golf balls before the real lesson could begin.

"Okay, everyone!" my teacher bellowed to the gaggle of 11-and 12-year-old chaos critters. "Bend at the waist slightly, and hold the club like this-" demonstrating a V-shape with his arms on the club, "Arms straight, and don't bend your elbows."

Easier for him and all the other boys, but some of the early blossoming young ladies (including, or perhaps especially, myself) were having trouble. I could either bend my elbows or stop breathing because straight arms sent my bosom into my neck, not only blocking my view of the ball, but constricting my breathing as the compressed womanly blossoms impaired my esophagus from its proper functioning.

My teacher, a mostly balding, very tall man with kind blue eyes, made his rounds, clipboard in hand, correcting and instructing my classmates into proper form — until he got to me, the most endowed girl in the group.

I swear I could hear the man utter a small sigh, thinking I didn't hear it. I was always his challenge student because I'd never been able to do pull-ups or get more than two feet off the ground on the rope climb.

"No, your elbows are bent," he said. "Do it like this," and demonstrated again. He noticed me turning a little blue and tried to hide a chuckle. "No, you have to lay your arms on top of your chest."

On top of my chest? I gave him an odd look. "Tell me you're kidding," I said. 

He told me to try. I gave him a knowing little smirk and did exactly as he instructed. My arms were straight, my waist was in perfect form;  however, the golf club was at least a foot off the floor. Unless I bent in half, there was no way that club would hit a ball, unless I used a railroad spike as a tee. We both looked at the club, then at each other. I shrugged, looking sheepish, and he shook his head, trying not to grin.

"You get a C," he said, marking it down on his clipboard before walking away.

He always encouraged me to try things, but after a while, we had an understanding. I had muscle, but it was short bursts of strength-muscle, not athletic endurance-muscle. And he learned later on that I had a place in the gym world after all — but that's a story for another day.