I was thinking about something the other day as I watched my son throw a football with some neighborhood kids. At age 5, he’s already got a pretty tight spiral. What can I say? He comes from good genes, right? Wrong. While I have always loved sports, I have always been clumsy and awkward when it comes to actually playing them.

In baseball, I had a wicked 70+ MPH fastball in Little League. The problem was, I had no control over it. I plunked 4 kids in one game. I threw a no hitter that we won 9-4. Nothing but walks and beaned batters. In football, I spent more time watching the cheerleaders than the game. In basketball, I had the height over most kids, but I would foul out within minutes as I awkwardly flailed over them like a slaughterhouse bone grinder.

I always understood concept, but I could never execute. Which is why I’m here talking about sports on the internet, rather than out playing them. I always assumed I would pass my Shawn Bradley genes onto my children. I had saved this story for my sons for when they inevitably came to me, upset that they always get picked last, but after watching my son throwing the ball around this weekend, I will tell my story to all of you in hopes that one of you is a “always picked last” type and hope that you can see my glimmer of hope in that big black cloud.

This is a true story:

Way back in elementary school I was on the soccer team. Like usual, I was awkward and an overall failure on the field. I was stuck in the fullback position, which, not being European, I just have to assume is the soccer equivalent of right field. At fullback was me, tall and lanky, thick glasses, braces, a spattering of acne and the fat kid who’s mother packed him extra underwear in his lunchbox through fifth grade for when he peed in his pants and who would never be on the “skins” team when we scrimmaged.

Come around seventh grade, we got a soccer coach who was unlike the other dads who had previously coached us. He was a real soccer player. Well, he played in adult park leagues and such, but he was way more advanced than the old dads. He had a long red pony tail, an earring, a scruffy goatee. He let us cuss, he’d share his dip with us, he talked to us like he was one of us. I say, “us” liberally, because I certainly don’t mean to include myself or the fat kid in that “us”. We usually would stand idly by watching the cool kids cuss and dip and DAMN if we weren’t jealous of all that.

He would have invitational practices where he would work extra with the kids that showed promise. Needless to say, me and fatty weren’t included on that roster. After a while, he started having post game parties over at his house. Parents were invited for a while, but eventually they turned into all nighters and the kids would stay over on Saturday night.

Damn, how we were jealous. All me and the fat kid wanted was to be in that party where you could cuss and dip and stay up late… Damn, what a great time…

Then, one day, practice was canceled. They brought the soccer team down to the office and sat us down. It turned out that our soccer coach had finally been caught by Louisiana authorities on child molestation charges. The group was separated and one by one we had to speak with the counselors. One by one, the cool kids came out of the room, eyes red and puffy, sniffling.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, during these parties that lasted through the night, our beloved coach, friend of the cool kids, was molesting those very same cool kids. The whole time, me and Fatty McGee were the luckiest of all. It was on that day, I decided to take the number of the biggest prick “cool kid” who had allegedly “gone the farthest” with the coach. #48 has been my number since, be it in park league softball or anything else. A little reminder that sometimes being the awkward, clumsy kid has some advantages.

The moral of this story? Getting picked last all the time may hurt now, but apparently that’s kryptonite for child molesters.

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