Rita's Reflections: Tomboy or athlete? Sports can reveal a lot about someone
I learned early being called a “tomboy” only meant I could do some things as well if not better than a boy. It never bothered me. It fueled me to try harder.
One day while tossing a rubber baseball against the wall of the garage with the grandkids, I caught one with my arm behind my back and my glove between my legs. I have done it in the past but it took a contortionist move that time. After I released the catch in my back as well as the ball in my mitt, both of my grandchildren exclaimed wide-eyed, “Nonie, how did you do that!” When BZ went to school the next day and told her friends about my “amazing” catch, one child sounded doubtful when he exclaimed, “No grandma can do that!” Neener. Neener. Neener. I did. I’m just not sure I will ever be able to do it again. One never knows when the last time we do something is literally the last time.
I enjoy watching young people play sports until spectators ruin it. Maybe you have heard or seen them. They are the ones that quote from a rule book and usually have never played the game themselves. They always know more than the coach when it comes to their kid. Or they argue calls with high school-age umpires doing the best they can. I was pleased when a Mason (Go Eagles!) elementary softball coach pointed that fact out to a visiting spectator constantly complaining from the sidelines. Give it a rest, will ya? Sports are supposed to be fun. That is why they are called “games.”
Thankfully, Larry has never felt threatened by my athletic ability. In fact, playing sports together is what brought us together. Wrestling is a fun sport for couples. Now that I am older and a whole lot wiser, I realize Larry let me pin him a little too easily early on. I suspect his frown was really a smile turned upside down. That sneaky rascal!
Larry and I were at a party one summer and partners in horseshoes. I think the competition took one look at my 5-foot frame and thought the game over before it began. I looked at our competition and thought we had a fair shot of winning. Larry held his own. I was on a streak and getting ringer after ringer. One opposing male was getting flustered when he and his partner were falling farther behind in points. His poor sportsmanship reared its ugly head when he let loose a wild throw and it bounced willy nilly and went right through a basement window. Insecure tough guys crack me up.
At the recent family reunion, cousin Randy asked Larry if he rides a motorcycle. Larry said no and he has no interest. Randy asked if Larry rides on the back with me. Again, Larry said no but he would have no problem with it. Larry finished by telling Randy he is man enough to take a backseat to me if I want to ride him around. Aww. Be still my heart.
The truth is, I don’t allow anyone to ride with me because it changes how the bike maneuvers. I don’t want to be responsible for a passenger. Or another shoe. Flashback to a hot mess. I was giving a friend a ride on my first motorcycle when Cindy said her foot was getting warm. She had one leg sticking straight out and the other foot resting on the hot muffler. The sole of her shoe looked like melted mozzarella cheese stretching from a slice of pizza. Fast forward several decades. A woman from church sat on my Suzuki Savage and accidentally touched her leg against the hot muffler.
Maybe, I should come with a warning: Some things may melt or get hot around me.
Rita Wyatt Zorn is a wife, mother, grandmother and lifetime Monroe County resident. She can be reached at 7.noniez@gmail.com.
This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Rita Wyatt Zorn: Tomboy or athlete
