Now, this is truly a silly post. This post is completely worthy of the category. There is no hidden meaning, no social justice component, no spiritual significance, no reference to renunciation or creative expression or meditation Olympics.
This is a post about my one foray into intramural sports, or any sport at all for that matter. I have only had one foray.
When I was in high school, I was part of the artsy theater and poetry crowd. You know, the ones who wear all black and listen to “alternative” music. You may reference, on the right, a picture of me and my friends against a brick wall, very Breakfast Club-esque. I may not be wearing all black in this picture, but I can assure you, I spent almost a whole year in all black. (Later in life I balanced this out by wearing all white for a year, but that is another less silly story).
I was so all-black-alternative-artsy-poetry-girl in fact that when I participated in the Junior Miss pageant (I did what??), my “talent” was reading a piece of my own angsty poetry while dressed all in black holding a dead rose in one hand! Yes – a dead rose. You can imagine how that compared to the other contestants’ opera arias, baton twirling and gymnastic routines.
It’s fair to say that none of my friends were at all athletic. The closest we came to athletics is when one of my dearest friends, a flamboyant boy named Jeffrey Fountain, would chase the Christian Athlete’s Association jocks down the breezeway, pretending that he wanted to ask them out just for fun. He relished in who he was and made no attempt to stay in the closet. Instead, he used to bring flowers to the football players, as if the jocks were stars in a Broadway musical instead of quarterbacks and wide receivers.
Some of the guys in our circle of friends had a punk band (of course) named The Scrammies. Despite not being athletic, we had invented our very own sport called Scram-ball – kind of like hacky sack but using a beach ball and your head. But since there were no Scram-ball tournaments, we thought it would be rather funny if our pale and skinny lot played soccer. So, one year we decided to enter the high school’s intramural soccer league!
In honor of our punk rock roots, we named the team the Scrammies. For our team uniforms we wore white and green spray painted t-shirts with “Scrammies” stenciled on the back and cut-off jeans. We showed up at every game we were assigned to and lost every one. We cheered each other on, laughed and had lots of fun, given that we didn’t really take the whole thing very seriously. Other more serious teams found this very annoying.
The sad fact is that in the whole intramural tournament we only scored one single goal – and it was against the faculty!
It might surprise you to know that I am the one who scored this goal. I was surprised as well, because it was a complete and total accident. The ball hit me in the head and then went off in a trajectory straight into the goal. While my head hurt and I was a bit stunned, my team mates cheered and laughed and gave me high fives. It was all very exciting.
I am tempted to conclude this story drawing some inference about living life fully or believing in miracles or gaining compassion and understanding for athletes and people unlike ourselves by walking a mile in their shoes – even if I did wear my black high-top Converse with all the peace signs scribbled on the soles. However, I promised to make this a purely silly post, and so I will.
Go Scrammies Forever!!