by Geneva Gleason
When it comes to gym class, it's all downhill from the moment I enter the locker room and put on my old purple Converses and knee-highs (apparently these are not appropriate hosiery for physical education.)
Surprisingly, my hard-earned muscles from hours of grueling marching band rehearsals don’t transfer well to gym class. I have to push through.
There was a time when I didn’t try so hard in gym, which led to what we now call the Great Accident. After weeks with an 88 percent in my sophomore gym class, I resolved to impress my teacher by running during basketball. This ended in a sprained ankle and a very charming medical boot.
Now, as a junior, I face soccer: the athletic equivalent of being chased, then mauled, by a bear. Gym teachers should really leave this sport to the pros. Last week, after many traumatic encounters with the soccer ball, I tried to introduce a new penalty for “Uterus-Shots” to no avail.
Some days, my team mistakenly puts me in the goal--one of the scarier positions for a player of my ability. My defense leaves me solo in the goal as the offender shoots and I flee he goal and my pride.
Today, I return to offense. I yell to my teammate to pass the ball to me but apparently everyone’s still not over my faux pas in goal.
It seems that I am the only one who recognizes this game for what it truly is: a life-threatening cat-and-mouse chase with a deadly spherical object. I dream of a school where I can earn credit for exercising my brain.