Monday, November 15, 2004

Nobody knows who I really am. I've never felt this empty before.

For the life of me I don't think I've ever met any person who hates sports as much as I do. I hate sports. Especially team sports. I hated having to work with other people and having to support other people, when those other people think you're some piece of snot.

I don't think many people know how it feels like being the last one in class to be picked for a team during PE lessons in school. Not many people have a chance to see the knowing looks on the other students' faces when all of them know that the team that gets Andre is bound to lose. Not many people knows how it feels like seeing the look of bitter resignation in the faces of the other students in his team as the game starts, how it feels like hearing the team captain tell him to stay out of the way.

My life story, in three sentences. Why I hate football, basketball, rugby, handball, volleyball, and a whole lot of other sports.

I don't mind the losing. To me losing to someone else is merely a direct manifestation of the differences in ability between you and that someone else. Knowing my own capabilities, I never felt any bitterness at losing to a better person. But everyone else felt it, and I felt that bitterness targeted towards me, towards the cause of their loss. My don't-really-care attitude towards losing made that bitterness worse, fed their hate towards me, towards someone who can singlehandedly tip the scales of the game and yet be so nonchalant about it. None of it mattered to me. I went skipping along and bent to ruffle the mimosa in the grass. Or I thought I didn't bother. No one can be the target of so much dislike and bitterness and not bother.

That was in primary school. I wasn't much liked in primary school. There was little I could do about it.

It was very much the same in secondary school. What was different was that I tried to be useful. I tried to not be a liability, if not an asset. It didn't work. Someone would throw me a ball and I would miss catching it. Others would scream, "Don't pass the ball to him!" Fine. Don't pass the ball to me. Just pass all that hate along, won't you. Those weren't the worst days.

Upper secondary was a nightmare. I dreaded PE lessons like I never had before. The reason being the teacher would group us into teams based on our register numbers, so I always ended up with the same groups of people during lessons. There was this really nice guy in this group who would always encourage me when I screwed up a serve during tennis, or a volley during volleyball. It was the first time in my life anyone was nice to me during PE, and yet I hated it. I hated it because despite all my efforts to be better at the various games we were playing, I just could not. And I could see the frustration in his eyes, in all the others' eyes, while he said it's alright, we'll try that again.

I hated the falseness I could hear in his words, even though I knew he was only trying to be nice, to not be like all those people who have tormented me my whole life with their rejection and their hate. But I wished that he could hate me like all the other people did. I didn't want to be patronised like a little child. I didn't need his pity nor his sympathy. I didn't need his to blackmail me emotionally with his encouragements so I could not put in any less effort than I already did, because all I wanted to do was give up. Why try so hard when you know the only result is failure? But still I tried, because of his encouragement, because despite my breaking will I was truly encouraged, felt wholly supported.

There was only that one person in the whole of my life that I truly remember for the way he touched me, even if in the end it amounted to nothing much and I was still a wreck at physical sport. He was not a close friend, and yet the way he encouraged me changed me a lot more than anything else anyone else might have done in his place. I never found out if it was a good thing or a bad thing, but I never want to have it happening again, because it nearly killed me trying to deserve that kind of kindness.

Some people tell me sport is fun. It's a leisurely activity, they say. It builds camaraderie, fosters team spirit, they profess. I wonder if they've ever felt the way I've felt, seen the things I've seen and heard the things I've heard. These are the people who tell you to go stand in a corner and stay out of the way, the people who roar when they win and curse when they lose, the people who don't even look at you with disdain in their eyes because in their eyes you don't exist. Team spirit, my foot. What kind of lofty team spirit can you speak of when you tell the weakest link to go rot in a corner? When you demean the value of a human being by judging it according to the value that human being has in helping you win a game? Tell me about sportsmanship and I'll tell you about marginalisation. Show me someone who thinks winning isn't everything and I'll point you five to whom winning is more than everything, I'll show you the kind of people who made my life a living hell.

One afternoon during PE in JC I was running around, pretending I was part of the game, pretending someone would notice me and pass me a ball and yet hoping no one would because I would most likely screw up as usual. That was when I straightened and went, Damn, what the hell am I doing? Why am I deluding myself like this? If I weren't running around on the court, no one would notice my absence. No one.

So I left. And never looked back. No one noticed. Why would they?

Avaris / 11/15/2004 06:03:00 PM

0 consumed