I’ve made no secret of it. When it comes to things with balls, I’m completely uncomfortable. Much to the distress of my father, I was never good at sports. No. I’ve told a lie. I was bloody awful. Much to my distress it was well-known in grade school that I was bloody awful at sports.

I don’t like football. There. I’ve said it. Grade school football was terrifying. Everybody knew I lacked the hand-eye coordination. Everybody knew I lacked the brute strength. I was scrawny. Everybody knew I lacked the confidence. Oh, no. Oh please, dear God, not me. And because my terror and lack of skill were so obvious, and because I was scrawny and shaking in my sneakers, pale and sweaty, because of all of this, people always kicked the ball at me. There was one occasion where, at kickoff – that’s a thing, isn’t it? Kickoff? – at kickoff, the other team kicked the ball, with much skill and aim, directly at me. All I had to do, really, was put out my hands and catch it. I didn’t, as I remember. It fell to the ground. I was on my own. I picked it up. I suppose I knew I had to run in the direction ahead of me.

But, and here’s the thing, rules or no rules, when you’re 11, and you’ve got no skill, and you’re ashen from fear, and you’re scrawny, you don’t really want to go running headlong into a wall of nine or ten or fifty boys, boys much bigger, boys much more solid, boys much more fierce in their youth than you could ever conceive of being. So I picked it up, that horrible ball that was the symbol of everything wrong with me, and rather than run into that wall of force, I hesitated. I looked around, as I remember. Who knows what I saw? It was all a nightmare, corrupted and cloudy by horror then and by memory now. Perhaps I stood my ground as wood does in a fire or as a shack on the plains in a hurricane. Perhaps I took a few frightened steps forward into the skirmish. Perhaps, and this is just as likely, I ran away from the boyish blitz coming at me, which makes more sense than joining the battle.

By the time I might have gained any sense of my mettle as a man, or any hand-eye coordination, or any senseless aggression that might provoke me into recklessly rushing into that wall of ball-players, I had long since shied away from any sort of sport.

Meanwhile, Paul has just finished his halftime show. That was dull as sullied dishwater. I was really hoping he’d flash a nipple. That’s not very Sir-ish. But it would be funny. I’m sure he knows he’s there, primarily, because he’s not likely to flash a tit.

I don’t like watching football for all of the reasons I said above – the terror, mostly. But also because, and I know this is my mistake, it looks untidy. I’m sure there’s art and I’m sure there’s strategy. But I don’t see it. I also don’t like that I can’t see their faces. All of the drama is anonymous and faceless. They have their names on their jerseys but really that could be anybody in there. Soccer, what the rest of the world calls football, at least looks tidier. And, where you can see their faces, and you – we – can read what they feel, I get a lot more in the game.

No. No, I wasn’t any better at soccer.

SS