seen from Estonia
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I saw a post which reminded me of two things:
(1) How much I despised doing, and spent so much time, energy and imagination avoiding, compulsory Games / Sports / Gym / PE / PT / Whatever.
(2) That I never, ever have to do, or avoid, compulsory Whatever again in my life.
*****
I spent my whole school career avoiding them, and forged sick notes which helped that avoidance were the first really successful fiction-writing of my life.
I also learned that when acting the part of someone with a sprained ankle, a tiny stone in the appropriate shoe was a good reminder of which ankle to limp on, while an air of suffering bravely borne was always more convincing if that air was scented with a faint hint of the embrocation rubbed into one sock.
*****
The other post didn't mention time of year or weather, but both were frequent entries in My List Of Unpleasing Things About Games.
Leaving out PT / Gym / PE or whatever, which was indoors and - thanks to the solidity of the equipment - a weekly source of sprains, strains, bruises, mild concussion and deep loathing, my old school used to observe Ye Olde Academic terms and their associated sporting pleasures.
This says something about which I'm not quite sure, and I see it's replaced them with plain old Autumn-Spring-Summer Term, which says something else about which I'm even less sure.
*****
So there was Michaelmas Term (August to Christmas), and rugby.
A soggy school rugby pitch in Northern Ireland in November, halfway through the game with the pitch well churned up, the daylight fading, the rain turning to sleet and every other member of both teams still (a) Too Large and (b) Too Keen, was a reluctant 12-year-old's equivalent of Flanders Fields on the Western Front ca. 1916.
(No artillery or machine-guns, but (a) and (b) were quite enough.)
I was also a skinny reluctant 12-year-old - those who know me now can believe that or not as you please - and the icy breezes which whistled unimpeded up, across and down the legs of my too-baggy-now-but-he'll-grow-into-them shorts were at least one cause of a lifelong fondness for saunas, hot tubs and steam baths.
*****
Then there was Hilary Term (January to Easter) and field hockey.
That was when the School Armoury issued hockey sticks and sent us forth onto the Artificial Pitch, which wasn't as muddy as the grass-covered rugby one but could produce amazing scabby knees and elbows after a tumble at speed, either after the ball or more often away from the opposition's bloody-minded front row.
Being artificial, rainwater didn't soak in but just sat there in puddles, and sometimes in early term they froze hard enough that field hockey could become ice hockey in the space of a couple of strides, cue another tumble and more scabs. Oh yes, and my shorts were still too baggy, so icy breezes in unwanted places continued to be an ongoing delight.
*****
And then there was Trinity Term (post-Easter to July) and field athletics then cricket, AKA liveliness meets somnolence.
That was when the sky became increasingly blue, the birdies sang tweet-tweet, the sun shone more often, the air became noticeably warmer and anyone with sense enjoyed as much of the soon-to-be-summer days as worries about impending End-Of-Term exams allowed.
It was also a time for field athletics until Half-Term, featuring long-jumps, high-jumps and runs of various speed and duration.
We re-learned every year that it was possible to get a nasty sunburn even in a Northern Ireland May, that unless the groundskeeper raked the sand in the long-jump pit properly there would be at least one souvenir from a local cat, that sweat could break out with the least exertion because sunny and humid were frequently simultaneous, and that horseflies were always ready to sample new blood and the way they got that blood was a painful process.
It still is.
Bastards.
*****
After Half-Term it was cricket, which combined disinterested boredom and pointless intermittent activity at a nearly Zen level with me being very, very bad at it.
I was no good as a bowler, I could throw straight or I could throw hard, but throwing hard and straight at the same time was something I never seemed to master.
Oh dear.
I was no good as a batsman, I tended to step out and slosh so the ball went in all directions, including on a couple of occasions straight up and straight down again, though not high enough or for long enough to get any runs.
What a shame.
I was no good as a wicketkeeper because I was more butterfingered than a clumsy dairymaid, and what I didn't drop I would handle wrongly, like that time I made what would have been a perfect catch except I fumbled it and knocked the stumps down before, not after.
Oops.
My incompetence at everything up close was Really Quite Remarkable, so I was invariably sent out to one of the deep field positions where, unless something Silly happened, I could be safely ignored and - if the grass was long enough - I would be ignored whatever happened.
I read a lot of good books that way.
Not a single one was about sport.
As team captain, which of the Kats are you picking first for your kickball team? 💪🏃♀️
Daniela
Manon
Yoonchae
Lara
Megan
Sophia
Results
Society: We gotta get the kids moving! we gotta get them active! active kids go on to be active adults!
School: Ok guys, it's cross country day! go run until you feel physically ill! and no you can't stop: you have to finish.
Like this post if you did sports in school
I didn’t understand half the words but it looks like they might be expanding discrimination protection to trans students about sports, it’s still not perfect and would allow some discrimination for higher competitive scenes but I feel like you all should know about this
“ . . . one has to wonder if beer has once again provided the fuel for a revolution against leaders who are unconnected, uncaring, and unconcerned with the rage of those whom they dismiss as mere rabble that must be crushed and silenced.”
Beer has long been a part of our shared human experience. Because the safety of local fresh water supplies was always in question, our ance
