Wendi {at random}

I'm sure you all know my amazing talents. I can trill my Rs. I can find teacher stuff on the internet. I can grow cilantro, chop it up, and add it to Newman's Own salsa to make it taste almost homemade. But I bet you're not aware of my Non Gifting. I am not an athlete. I know, that's shocking news.

God had plans for me. Yes, big plans. But they did not involve anything that uses a ball or keeps score or involves catching anything with your hands. I learned this early on in Coach Mainous' and Mrs. Riggs' gym class. As soon as team captains were chosen - and, ahem, was I ever a team captain???? Um, no. -- I endured the loneliest moments of my life on the bleachers waiting to be called. To be a member of a team. I'd wait. And wait. And wait. Even the kids who were clearly worse athletes than I were picked. And I waited still. And I was finally chosen. Dead. Last. That was me. "Oh man, do we have to have Weeeendiiiiiiiiiiiiii?" they'd whine.


For the record, their dismay at having me on their team was warranted. Volleyball was my worst sport. I would do anything, ANYTHING, to keep from serving that ball. I'd even endure the mandatory shower in the locker room 423 times a day to avoid this unbearable torment. Volleying the ball back and forth was bad enough. I was horrible at that. But serving it, well, that was a punishment, a torture. All eyes would be on me. All that dread, all that hopelessness, rested on me. They knew I'd send the ball flying cock-eyed backwards. Or leave it untouched even after taking my swing. Yes, they knew. I sucked. And I knew it, too. I lived for the day when gym wasn't a required credit.

Joining the band, on the other hand, was natural. Like waking up in the morning or watching the weather before you get dressed. I started playing the clarinet in 4th grade for a Mr. Anderson who had fuzzy hair. That's really all I remember about him. Then Mr. Tipton came. Mr. Tipton had even been my mom's band director at Pennington Gap when she was in high school. Boy, did I feel the connection. Mr. Tipton could make a room full of the worst players sound like musicians. He inspired me to grow, to play. He gave me a home on the football field at half-time. That's the closest I ever got to a sports arena.

Once I got to 8th grade, which was in high school for me in my tiny town of Norton, I tried out for the flag corps and made it. I spent the rest of my football seasons twirling that flag. I went to football games for the glory of the halftime show. I wasn't kidding myself. I knew that only the band geeks and their families showed up for halftime. But that was MY time. My time to sparkle and shine and razzle dazzle. I don't think I was a show-off, but I was serious about my work. Sometimes too serious, I suspect. But I loved it and never doubted that God put me on earth to twirl that flag to the tunes of Rocky Top and El Nimo, and El Cumbenchero and Sing, Sing, Sing. I can still twirl in my sleep. I grew up happy, innocent, and regimented by the season of the band.

Spring found me sitting on the stage for concert band playing the alto clarinet because I was better on that than the regular clarinet. It was nice, making music. But there were no football lights, no smells of hotdogs and popcorn, sticky Coke-covered bleachers, no promises to meet up at Pizza Hut after the game.

Football season was my season. I didn't have to hurl a football or catch it or make a touchdown or two-point conversion pass (thanks, Dad, for teaching me that one) to love it. I just had to show up in my freshly pressed uniform and do my work. I lived for those fall days.