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My name is Liz. I need direction. I overuse commas. My house is a mess, my hair needs a trim and I have no marketable skills: It’s fun here, you’ll see!

Got a question, comment, proposal of marriage? Great! Email me at liz@theproductivecough.com

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Got a question, comment, proposal of marriage? Great! Email me at liz@theproductivecough.com

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July 26th, 2011

Sporting Life

My genetic material has provided me with a lot of excellent features, including, but not limited to, eyelids, a large intestine, and the ability to solve Myst without the hint book. My genetic material has not provided me with a lot of skill in the area of athletics. In sports situations, I endanger myself and others. Playing catch can make me up to five times more nervous than a chemistry final because all I can think about is the sound the ball will make when it hits me in the eye. When someone asks me to “toss” them their car keys, my mind goes immediately to images of that person sitting in a pile of what used to be a lighting fixture with the keys to their Volvo protruding from their neck.

I also tend to lose games for people, and generally bring down the overall quality of a team. The only basket I ever made in an official game was for the other side. Do not be on my foosball team, because I can’t not kick the ball backwards into our goal. I have the eerie ability to kick anything 75 degrees away from where it needs to be.

The other day, while watching a baseball game with Paul, I was marveling at the skill involved in hitting a home run, and wondering if I’d ever had any athletic ability which I just failed to nurture. Then I found this picture. Let’s take a look:

 

T-Ball

Clear proof that my lack of skill has existed my whole life!

Besides the fact that my pants come up to my shins, and that my socks do not match my uniform, my eyes are closed as the ball approaches me. This is indicative of the Athletic Fear Gene. Also, I’m standing in entirely the wrong place. I think.

Finally — and I think this is key — I seem to be employing a chopping motion to propel the ball toward the outfield. That’s right. I firmly grasped the aluminum mini-bat with both hands and swung downward, as though I were playing whack-a-mole. A small victory: I did connect with the ball. This is why the ball is headed right for dead grass. You can tell I’ve disappointed the man in the tiny shorts and unreasonably clean socks.

So there it is. Terrible at sports for as long as I’ve been alive. But that’s okay. I’ve got eyelids.

3 comments to Sporting Life

  • Steve the Cat

    and you were batting lefty, even though you are right-handed — which is puzzling to neurologists everywhere

    btw, Lloyd Sherman there is the background had apparently given up on coaching you and was mainly thinking about what was for dinner….

  • P.

    The way he’s standing it actually looks like he’s *afraid* of coaching.

  • Kjerst

    I how meticulously he matched his outfit. I believe the blue Nike is the exact shade as his fabulous shorts. Well done sir.

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