Good Riddance, Physical Education

Mon., Sept. 7, 1998

Matthew Weaver, Rogers

The ropes are taunting me again. “Climb us, Matthew,” they whisper while hanging from a ceiling light-years above my head. “Swing from us, if you can! BWAHAHAHAHAHAH!

I wake up in a cold sweat, wondering: Why can’t I just dream about Heather Locklear?

Physical education has been out of my life for about a year now, but the nightmares still continue, the only lasting scar that remains from that terrible era.

For 11 years PE and I had this bitter animosity between us. The wars were intense. Oh sure, I probably could have done better, but I just wasn’t into that whole athletic thing. (And with this, certain jocks or P.E. fans just muttered to themselves, “Softie. P.E. is a wonderful part of education, and a valuable experience for all individuals.” To them I say: Nyah, nyah! At least I’ve got an SAT score higher than 4.)

For some silly reason, I just couldn’t get excited about ball-kicking, golf-clubbing or wrestling. P.E. is not for everyone. I’d rather read, write, watch TV, eat and breathe.

Sure, I had some fun experiences in P.E. There was that time superstupid superstud Slate Gravel (name has been changed to protect the ugly) tripped while playing football. Boy did I laugh.

And I discovered in my final year of P.E. that I liked to play catcher in softball. You get to heckle the members of the other team when they’re up to bat (I never feel complete until I’ve been chased off the field by at least one aluminum bat-wielding psycho), and when someone throws a ball to you, and you catch it, you’re a hero. Otherwise, the ball will always, always go over your head, or way off the one side, and you can blame the thrower.

But for the most part, I was quite happy to let P.E. die. Along with the dreaded ropes (Satan’s gift to athletic departments), there was weight-lifting (where you have to bend your body into a pretzel shape just to lift anything), bowling (which I actually liked, except our floors were all lopsided), basketball (how was I supposed to know each team has their own basket, and you aren’t aiming for yours?), paddleball (or hit-a-ball-and-run-half-the-length-of-the-gym-chasing-it), jump rope (I have long legs, OK?), and the sit-and-reach (I have long legs, OK?)

This is not meant to reflect badly upon my P.E. teachers throughout the years. My thanks to them for helping to show me exactly what I want to be when I grow up: a writer.

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