Taylor, The Mighty Bowhuntress

(Originally posted on 2.12.08)

It was the spring of 1994, and 15 to 20 of my fellow classmates and I gathered in the high school gym. As I followed the rest of my friends into the girl's locker room, the impossibly low ceilings and dingy cinderblock walls reminded me of medieval dungeons or ancient catacombs. Not so much because of their appearance, but rather because of the dread I felt for what came next: 8th grade PE class.

Academic success has come quite naturally to me for the better part of my life. I have excelled in English and most other subjects, but PE, or any endeavor requiring physical skill or hand-eye coordination has always evaded me.

My parents enrolled me in T-ball, and I played a total of two games before ending my competitive sports career at the ripe old age of 5. In fact, my 4 year old brother filled in for me at most of those practices whilst I picked dandelions and complained about the heat.

Not only am I a pansy, I am also terminally clumsy. When you throw healthy dose of paranoia and subsequent flight response when balls and/or miscellaneous sporting equipment are hurled toward me, the picture becomes even clearer.

Every time I walk onto a sporting field or court, I envision the word "SPAZ' in giant red letters emblazoned across my chest for the entire world to point and laugh at. It is something that I frequently joke about now, but as a 13 year old girl, when my pubescent hormones had a stranglehold on any confidence I might have possessed, it was a source of great humiliation.

As I pulled on my bright blue Umbro shorts and oversized Nike T-shirt in that locker room, I felt like a peasant accused of witchcraft; I was dressing to be burned at the stake for my poor motor skills. While the others flitted and skipped along the basketball court to revel in all things competitive and athletic, mine was a death march.

Each day held some new realization of my ineptitude. I waited to hear the defeat in the team captain's voice as they called my name from the last three fitness rejects who stood aimlessly on the other side of the gym. We stared longingly, across that great chasm of inequality, at our able-bodied counterparts, knowing that, in this gym, we would never measure up.

As I shuffled to softball plate to take bat, my shoulders slumped and I fought back tears of shame as one of the opposing teammates inevitably shouted "Everybody move up!"

Our teacher, "Coach D," was a seasoned boy's basketball coach. He called everyone by their last name, kind of like commanders with their soldiers. By all accounts, he was tough and passionate about sports, but when it came to me, it was quite apparent that I was a lost cause. Coach D gave perfect instructions on each sport we tackled that semester, but no amount of wisdom seemed to rescue me from my awkward and blundering form. It had to be disappointing for him as an educator because I sucked at everything…

That is everything, except archery.

One bright sunny day, Coach D led the class out to the adjacent practice field. 6 brightly colored circular pads stood on support bars several yards away as we walked up to corresponding sets of bows and quivers filled with arrows on the grass. Coach D went through the fundamentals and techniques of the sport, and after a few minutes, it was our turn to give it a shot (my apologies for the horrible pun).

When my turn came, I picked up the bow, and loaded the arrow. I was a little shaky, but the fact that no one was in close proximity eased the fear that I might inadvertently impale a fellow classmate. I focused, took a deep breath, and released...The arrow went shooting through the air and landed quite close to the bull's eye.

I turned to see the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in Coach D's eye: "Looks like we finally found something you're good at, Taylor!" he said. Pride rushed over me like cool wave; I was finally a soldier, no, scratch that, a warrior!

For the remaining shots, I was Diana, goddess of the hunt, tracking fearsome animals and evildoers alike. Nothing, not even the snide remarks of jocks, could escape my mighty bow and arrow. I was finally in control of my reflexes and nerves, and no longer a martyr for the weak and feeble. As we returned to the locker rooms, the gym didn't seem like such a terrible place that day. I had actually conquered something sports related, and it felt amazing!

I wish I could say that for the remainder of the classes I was as adroit and skillful as I was that day on the archery field, but the truth is that some of my most disgraceful moments came shortly after that on the tennis courts. That, however, is a soul-crushing tale for another time, because for one sweet, glorious day, I was victorious.

Now that I've bared my soul, let's hear about your triumphs over adversity…don't be shy people, give me the goods…

RD