E-Mo.

So, I’m sort of seeing this new girl. 

She’s a good one. 

A really good one.

So anyway, the other day she and I were talking and I somehow mentioned that I played basketball in high school.  Immediately, she says to me---in disbelief, “You were a basketball player?”

I was surprised by her surprise…and somewhat angry…and surprised. 

And angry.

Couldn’t she tell?

All of my life everyone has told me (when they see my lean, athletic, 6’1” frame) that I look like a basketball player.  It always bothered me because I hate when people talk to me, but at the same time, it always made sense to me-and for two reasons: 

1 - I do look like a basketball player

2 - I have always been a basketball player

So, imagine my surprise when I find out this woman is shocked at the thought of me being any type of athlete.  I didn’t even know what to say.  All I could think of was the massive amount of time we have been spending together…and how she somehow has no clue about who I am, or who I was.

My father was a baseball player---and I hear a very good one (before overall dumbass-ness ultimately took over and lead him nowhere.  To his credit, he did become a Major League drinker).  My father was not around much when I was little, but whenever we were together, we were throwing a baseball.  Sometimes we were throwing it to each other, and sometimes he was hurling it at me way too hard while I was holding a bat---all the while telling me to “stop being afraid” and to “stay in the batter’s box.”  I like to think that my father would have obsessively pushed me to become the amazing athlete he never became (a la Earl and Tiger Woods), but he wasn’t even around enough to incessantly urge me against my will to be the best at a sport I was indifferent about.  A master of all things fuck-up, he couldn’t even find the time to ruin my childhood by pushing me too hard (a la Joe and Michael Jackson).  Once again, thanks for nothing pop (and shoutout to my moms for always holding me down).

I’m from a small Midwestern town of about 450 people, with no stoplights, two basketball courts and two baseball fields.  Without much help or coaching, I became proficient in both sports as a youngster.  Mostly because there wasn’t shit else to do.  The only thing people from my town did (other than ball) was drink, chain smoke, and let their perms go bad.

When I was younger, I was always the kid that was picked first---no matter which sport we were playing.  I realize it sounds arrogant, but it’s the truth. 

My last year in Coach’s Pitch baseball, I hit the ball over the fence about every other at bat.  It got so bad that the league changed from a spray-painted fence line to an actual 5-foot high plastic fence to keep me from Barry Bonds-ing the shit (but it didn’t matter). 

When I moved up to Little League, I became a pitcher.  I threw too hard for most kids to get a bat on the ball---and once struck out 18 hitters in a six-inning game (which was every single out of the contest).

Around the time I was growing bored of Little League baseball, I began to pick up hoops.  I practiced obsessively, sometimes eight hours a day.  My first season of organized basketball (5^th grade) I averaged 33 points a game.  I was taller and much more athletic than most of the other kids.  But it wasn’t just about my size or athleticism; I had a fair amount of polish for an 11-year old.  I could blow by defenders going either direction and was able finish with either hand at the rim.  The only thing that stopped me was my mom, who routinely grounded me (and demanded that my coaches bench me for entire games) due to all of the shit-talking I did to the other kids for not being able to guard me.  It was always my feeling that, if people wanted me to stop talking shit, they should try holding me under 30.  Mom never saw it that way.

Over the next couple of years people began to know my name.  By 8^th grade, I had my Junior High basketball coach picking me up in the offseason and taking me to the high school gym to work out with the varsity basketball coach before my classes started.  I was being groomed to be one of the next great hoopers at my high school and I loved it.

During my freshman basketball season, I had to wake up at 5:30 a.m. for freshman practice (7:00-8:00 a.m.), go to school all day, practice with the varsity basketball team after school from 3:30-5:30 p.m., work at a grocery store from 6:00-9:00 p.m. and then go home to do homework (five days a week).  I started for the JV basketball team that year and played reserve minutes for the varsity.  I got burned out after only one season of hoops because the schedule was ridiculous---and because my coaches got so serious about me becoming a great basketball player that I was no longer allowed to smile or have any fun during practice or games (which becomes frustrating for a 15-year old during an 8-month long season).

I played outfield for the varsity baseball squad my freshman and sophomore years, before I realized how boring baseball is and decided to leave it behind in favor of varsity skirt-chasing.

I would have played football in high school, but I separated my shoulder during the first day of camp freshman year, causing a nasty surgery and my subsequent retirement from football.  My career lasted nearly 23 minutes.

In my free time, I have always played golf, tennis, racquetball, slow-pitch softball, Frisbee, and done a fair amount of biking.  More recently, I have decided to take up triathlon.  I run 3-5 days every week for anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour straight.  I am working on overcoming my fear of community swimming pools to tackle to the third portion of the triathlon training.

(My bicycle was recently stolen, but I am in the market for a new one). 

In addition to all of that, my friends call me “Toddy Ball Game,” “Toddy Balls” or simply, “Balls,” because:

1 – I like the Red Sox, and “Toddy Ball Game” is a Ted Williams reference (“Teddy Ball Game”)

2 – In the trunk of my car, you will find two baseball gloves, a baseball, a softball, a basketball, a basketball pump, basketball pump needles, “indoor-only” basketball shoes, “outdoor-only” basketball shoes, an ankle brace, a Frisbee, and a college-sized football.  I have all of these things in my car so I am prepared to play absolutely anything, anywhere, anytime, no excuses.  

I breathe sports. 

I follow scores on TV, the internet, and my phone wherever I am.  I refuse to leave the house when big games are being played.

I watch SportsCenter on the TV out of the corner of my eye while this new girl is trying to make out with me on my couch.

And she never would have guessed I was an athlete.   Even worse, she told me she thought I was “probably an ‘Emo’ kid in high school.”

EMO?!?!

Where I’m from, “Emo” is what you became when you weren’t athletic enough to make any of the sports teams…and I was on almost all of them.

This past week, I met up with my lady-friend and some of her friends at a bar and we re-opened this discussion.  One of my lady-friend’s friends echoed the “emo” sentiments submitted by my girl.  I found it shocking because this third party was also an athlete in high school-and WE ATHLETES can usually tell---just from looking---who is and who ain’t.  But alas, no.  Thus, I began pleading with these two women like a wrongly-accused defendant, citing all of the information above as evidence.  It was at this time that I realized the only thing more pathetic and embarrassing than no one believing you are even the slightest bit athletic is trying to convince them otherwise with high school glory stories from 13 years ago.  You know who does this?  My father.  With this in mind, I decided to put what little pride I had left aside and concede my futile attempts at winning this argument.

It’s strange how you think you know how you are being perceived, and then you find out it is nothing like what you thought.  It’s really strange when you find out somebody relatively close to you thinks of you completely opposite of how you think of yourself.  I think I’m LeBron F-cking James and she thinks I’m Michael Cera.

I guess it doesn’t really matter how this woman thinks of me, as long as she thinks of me.  I hope she is around to mistake me for an emo kid for a good long while, because I think she is really dope.

And really, what’s so bad about “Emo” anyway?  I guess it’s how I come off these days.  I’ll just have to embrace it. 

But I refuse to cut myself.  And I’m not piercing anything. 

You’re welcome,

-The Todd