It happened. I saw it coming. There was no surprise attack.
I was cut from the football team.
My play last weekend was horrendous.
Bad snaps. Fumbles. Misunderstandings.
I was the worst player on the team last week and I knew it.
So they cut me. And it was a good decision.
I don't like it, mind you. But if I was the coach of a competitive A team, I wouldn't waste my time on a rookie who can't catch either.
It hurts to write it.
It stings, really.
The ego I didn't think I had is bruised and pulsating.
The "you have so much potential but..." email came this morning.
The "but..." lingered in the air. Hot and repugnant.
Nothing good ever comes after at "but..."
I knew when I saw the coach's name in the From line that my great run was over.
I opened it.
I skimmed.
I smiled and wrote a lovely reply full of thanks and good wishes – all true.
But in my gut, it hurt.
And I left the office to have a little Poor Me cry in the corner of a cafe over an herbal tea and a table of crumbs.
It didn't help.
In fact, it was kinda pathetic.
Getting cut is never fun.
I know this because I have spent a lifetime being cut.
I don't say that with a need for sympathy, but rather as a truth.
I've been on the sidelines for a while.
When the basketball team recruited me in highs chool because of my height, I sourly let them down with my sheer inability to lay up. Volleyball: I couldn't nail the overhand serve. Dead in the water by grade nine. Ice skating: over before it even began. Ultimate Frisbee: took three or four passes all year because no one wants to throw to me (I'm 50/50 at catching)
The list goes on.
I'm the Good Effort girl.
The one who gives it her all. Really pours herself into every sport.
But comes up empty handed.
The one who high fives and praises and laughs in the face of both victory and defeat, but never has a chance in hell of winning MVP.
I'm the girl with heart and no talent.
And it's a bitter pill to swallow for a girl who loves sports passionately and from the core and who has desperately wanted to excel in athletics for the past 20 years, to play alongside and keep pace with my throng of sporty, talented, spry brothers, and be "that" girl who amazes you when she throws a spiral 40 yards or dives to make the save or crosses the finish line first.
Man, what I would give to be great at sports.
But I'm a mediocre athlete on all accounts. Which isn't self-degradation; merely truth.
Just like I love to sing, but know I'm a terrible singer.
Sometimes love and talent don't jive.
It's not fair, but I didn't make up the rulebook so...
I wallowed a little bit (clearly).
I sulked.
I cried a bit.
I was silent.
My stomach churned.
My legs felt weak.
And then I remembered something a mentor once said to me:
"Kim, your dignity depends on your will."
So, as I see it, I have two choices:
1. admit defeat, hang up my cleats, and forget the fire that football fuels in my belly
2. hold my head up high and take the Michael Jordan route. Try try again. Give it my all and then some. And find a different route to the same end. I mean, heck, I have bruises, a bloody nose, and a split lip from all my effort over the last three weeks. Two quarterback sacks and a righteously cool interception.
I may have taken a ball or two to the face, and fumbled through many a pass, but I left my heart on the field each time.
And I'm proud of that.
So I joined the B team.
And I'll be playing footy after all.
Not as competitive, but a great opportunity to learn the game, grow my talent, and give it "good effort" and then some this season.
Sometimes, you just have to ride the wave and see where it takes you.
There is no dignity in quitting.
Onwards!
