The happy domain of sportive games has always had its gates closed to individuals of my capacity: the unfortunate ill-motivated. I shall here attempt to relate whether exercise in conjunction with social interaction is necessary, and the way in which a history of coordination catastrophes may influence further relations with other sports.
My previous school prided itself for its wide-ranging, high-performing, team-spirited sports program. In the years of middle school (ages 12-15), a class of forty-five minutes of Physical Education (P.E.) was compulsory every school day. The torture was inevitable; the only question that remained was when it was to occur. I would reason to myself patiently. An early morning class would mean it would be done and over with. If scheduled late in the afternoon, I could almost imagine that it never had to happen.
Going to P.E. class meant having to cross the campus, glumly dragging a sports bag along, towards the grimy changing rooms in the basement of the gym building. School changing rooms are by their nature repellent places. The combination of smell, suspicious dirt and forgotten clothes brought me to near nausea every single time I entered. There was room for imagination in wondering how long that t-shirt had been lying around on the edge of the bench, absorbing the ever present sweet-sour aroma of perspiration which hung permanently in the air. In short, I was rather delicate in my hygienic sensibilities at the time.
Our sports uniform was unisex: marine shorts, and a white t-shirt bearing the school logo. Having to wear a white t-shirt at some point every day provoked a necessity for a supply of white bras. Overlooking these colour-matching details in the morning could result in deep preoccupation throughout the class, and if noticed, significant embarrassment.
A typical session was usually uninteresting, occasionally traumatic. In team games, my peers quickly understood that the best strategy, if burdened by my presence, was to prevent my participation. This did not comprehend any grand and cruel scheme; rather, it took the form of a passive and complete ignorance of my existence. I was most willing to comply; in sum, we all agreed on one crucial point; coercing me to sportive action was an abhorrence.
On the other hand games which mandated participation, such as volleyball, were more socially dangerous. I earned desperate cries from all sides of the court, from people who had quite correctly assessed the extent of my ability. One day, a friend decided to take revenge by howling out a love declaration to the member of the opposite team a spilt second before he sent off his serve. Despite the fact that the technique (bizarrely) worked, the coach was far from amused.
Returning to the changing rooms afterwards was a happy temporary escape. I had expiated my punishment of the day.
My frustration towards the concept of physical exercise as such was so great that I decided around this time of my life to take up Taekwondo. Being able to train individually greatly helped. However, this was setting aside the numerous and inevitable awkward moments in a class which principally consisted of hormone-driven boys twice my weight and taller by a few heads. A few such occurrences included unfortunately aimed kicks, collapsing while holding up a training mat while others took their turn hitting into it and making up the words to count to ten in Korean.
Judging that this was still not enough, I began to attend Aikido trainings as well. This took a calmer approach to the concept of defence. Yet, using a katana to practice the various ways of dodging sword hits felt part paranoia part Last Samurai. In addition to these invaluable (but fun) skills, I also learnt how to count in Japanese. (Please note; now in two Asiatic languages).
Finally, my career in combat took a sharp end. I no longer stood the aggressive frame, the heavy dobuk, and what felt to be pointless tension. In addition, I had reached a high enough level to move on to competitions, which I disliked, and the fanciful activity of breaking piles of bricks by hits of the hand. Watching peers doing so was amusing enough, but I was far from ready to risk breaking my hands in two for the sake of a gleeful parental audience.
I ended at a happy equilibrium between yoga and the gym. Neither involves interacting with anyone, and that is well to my liking. Exercising does not have to be a social activity, nor a means to compare one’ self to the performance of others. Despite still often dreading the moment at which I will be compelled to make an effort, I am fully aware that my body will turn sluggish and woozy without. It is undeniably a good form of alarm. Beyond my moans and groans, I inevitably find myself dragged to the treadmill.
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