Kickball? Really?

I’m off to play kickball this afternoon.

I know, what am I, eleven?

My company is having a charity event that raises funds for school programs that benefit kids, and I signed up. At first I was enthusiastic because I’m not as intimidated by kickball. It’s basically baseball but with a big red rubber ball. I can’t bring myself to join the company softball team because I can’t handle the pressure! If I’m in the outfield and I look like I’m concentrating, the truth is that the entire time I’m just praying the ball doesn’t come my way. Because I live in fear that I’ll drop it and let everyone down.

I know what letting everyone down feels like when it’s my turn to bat! Back in the day when I used to play with my brother I wasn’t terrible and could hit sometimes, but that was just with my brother. That was not with a large group of people counting on me to do it well enough to at least make it to a base. My heart starts racing and the pit in my stomach turns into a giant, manic butterfly, trying to get out.

Can you tell I participated in a lot of team sports back in the day?

I was a theater nerd on the opposite side of campus.

Back to this kickball business – I’m starting to feel nervous. It turns out we’re going to be divided into corporate teams and vying to win “the silver cup.” Odds are I am not going to be the hero that people put up on their shoulders and carry off the field. I think what we’re looking at here is people whispering to one another, “Who’s the uncoordinated tall girl over there? Who said she could play? I can’t even tell what she tripped over before she fell flat on her face.”

Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that. Maybe I’ll get a few good kicks in and won’t utterly humiliate myself or my co-workers. In the end, it’s for charity, right? I’ll keep telling myself that tonight when I’m putting ice on my bruises.