I was destined never to be good at sports. Seriously. I could never shoot a hoop even with glasses, I knocked the kickball straight into the opposing team’s hands, was a horrible soccer player, and don’t even get me started on volleyball. This became apparent many years ago, when I did a Bella-like impersonation in sports.

When I was eight and living in Georgia, my dad decided that it was–once again–time to get me into sports. Never mind that I didn’t–and still don’t–work well with others, had horrendous hand/eye coordination, and would rather spend my time reading–I was going to learn how to play sports. He’d purchased a plastic bat and whiffle ball, took me out to the front of our apartment, and we had at it. He’d toss the ball, I’d swing, I’d miss, and we’d repeat. This continued on for quite some time until two things happened; my dad stopped paying attention, and I actually hit the ball.

Straight towards him.

My father, suffice to say, was unprepared. I don’t know if I whacked the whiffle ball harder than an eight year old should, my dad was horribly unbalanced, or both. But when the ball smacked him in the head, he toppled over. At first, I was shocked. After all, I’d missed so often that I couldn’t believe it. Then, the reality set in and I started laughing. My mother came over and–between scolding me for laughing and trying to keep her own chuckles to herself–helped my dad up. Fortunately, no father’s were hurt in the making of this memory. He had a slight bruise on his forehead, but I don’t think that qualifies.

Most parents would call it a day at that point. Not mine. I don’t know if my dad was braver than I thought, or simply deduced–accurately–that it was a fluke, but we kept at it for another half hour. I was really into it at that point as I wanted to score another knock out. You might find that horrifying, but what can I say?

Comedic relief is an excellent motivator.

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Disclaimer: I do not own the imagery used in this blog post and have no artistic claim to it.

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