It is one thing taking part in team games and races as a child, but quite another when you're on the other side of 50.
To be honest, I was so bad at sports as a child I may as well have been over 50. All those bad memories came flooding back to me this week, when we were invited to our neighbor's I Don't Wanna Grow Up 50th birthday party.
With so many of the guests older than me, I could hardly get out of it by throwing in the age thing.
'Right,' said Eva, lining us all up in the backyard. 'For the first game you'll all be in teams. You have to take a balloon, run with it to that chair over there, sit on it, burst it, then run back. First team to finish wins.'
As I waited to run, I was immediately transported back to 1960s England, standing in a damp, muddy sports field. Normally I like to write in a way that other people can identify with, but I realize as sports-mad Americans none of you will be able to do this. Not because you cannot imagine what an English field looks like, but because you cannot imagine what it is like a) not be good at sports and b) not to really care that you're not good at sports.
Every September when the school year began, I would check my timetable nervously to see when we had P.E. (physical education). Usually it was twice a week - once outside, once inside in the torture chamber they referred to as a gym.
There was nothing about it I liked. I would rather have had extra maths, which I also hated. Note in English it's maths in the plural. We waste no opportunity to count in England.
I'd like to point out here that I am in no way exaggerating how bad I was at sport for comic effect. When using the wall bars, I could get no higher than the third rung before experiencing vertigo. When practicing long jump I couldn't even reach the pit from the line you are meant to jump from.
The other kids hated me. The worst humiliation came right at the start of the lesson, when teams were picked. I wasn't even picked last. I was just left standing, forced to amble along to the last team to pick as they groaned about their misfortune.
Pop! I was shocked out of my well of self-pity by the sound of a balloon bursting. It was my turn next!
As my teammate returned, I began my run. Fortunately everyone else was having such a good time they didn't seem to notice me puffing along the grass. Popping the balloon was the easy bit, since these days I have so much more surface area for it to come in contact with.
Next was the egg and spoon race. I had slightly fonder memories of this game. At school I tried really hard with this one. I don't know why, probably because there was at least a vague connection with food. I won every practice heat, but naturally when it came to the actual race I dropped it two seconds in and came last.
At last, I hoped for a chance to redeem myself. So this time I ran full speed with the egg, only for it to fall off two seconds before the end of the race so the entire team came last.
If I am not too good at sport on my own, I'm doubly bad with someone else, especially when that someone else is Grumpy.
'For our final race, we're doing the three-legged race,' Eva announced with far too much enthusiasm. 'Take these and get practicing.'
She handed out garters for us to slip over our ankles.
'I am not running,' growled Grumpy, snatching the garter. 'We'll just take giant steps. I don't want to fall over.'
'It's only a game,' I said. 'Don't start. Some of the neighbors have already asked me why you have that nickname. Let's keep it our secret.'
By the time we'd got the garter on, all the other couples were bounding up and down the garden like gazelles. I suspected one couple had received a college scholarship for three-legged racing, they were so fast. Once again we were last past the post. As we hobbled off up the yard, I looked wistfully at Eva's dog. Was it too late to hook up to him instead? Would I be accused of cheating as technically it would then be a five-legged race? As a British underdog, at least I know my place.
Contact Hilary Decent at hilarydecent@yahoo.co.uk. Check out her blog, 'Living the American Dream,' at www.hilaryandross-usa.blogspot.com.
