September 1983: I’m a newly minted high school freshman, not yet 14, whiling away the long slow minutes in right field, a silently unwilling participant in softball, first-period gym class. You could’ve put a scarecrow in my place for all my enthusiasm.
I hated gym class. I hated it more than math, which is saying something. Math was difficult for me, but it didn’t involve being picked last (or next to last, if I was lucky) solely for the purpose of disappointing the team I’d been conscripted into. Math problems don’t come flying at you at 40 or 50 miles per hour, either. And if you miss a problem in math, no teammates groan and complain in collective disappointment.
My young mind wandered, and this was a mistake because lo and behold the ball was suddenly coming toward me, up from on high like an incoming mortar round. I said a few choice words under my breath and sprang awkwardly into action. My guess is that for many people it’s an easy catch, but then I wasn’t many people. A softball thumping off your sternum hurts, in case you’re wondering. Add to this the ball nimbly avoiding my glove and you had the usual dreary end to first period gym class.
It wasn’t entirely for lack of trying on my part; every now and then I decided now was the time to try out a sport so I would fit in with my peers. My father helped where he could, but looking back I think we both realized my heart wasn’t in it. No amount of practice shooting basketballs after school was going to make me even a passable player. I also realized that there was much more to this--far more—than just rote practice from the free throw line. Was I willing to put in the required effort toward something I wasn’t interested in? No, not really.
Sports itself presents a problem for me, like many autistics, because either too much is happening too quickly, or nothing is happening at all, and just when you can assess the situation too much is happening too quickly again. One misstep, one second off, and it’s over. You’re cooked. Travel with the basketball during gym, and I could expect some idiot to bring my mistake up on the bus ride home.
All I thought was, why do differently shaped balls and what I can or can’t do with them have such impact on my social life?
And this:
“An analysis of children and teens in the SPARK autism study found that 87 percent had problems with balance and coordination. That analysis used data from almost 12,000 SPARK participants ages 5 to 15.”
I don’t recall having problems with balance, but coordination, possibly. My fine motor skills were and are very good, but my gross motor skills are somewhat debatable. Good with pencils, bad with baseballs.
Solo sports like tennis, golf and cycling appeal more to autistics. They can progress at their own pace—martial arts seem to be particularly popular. Exercise also offers physical activity—I took up jogging and then weight-lifting for a time. In college I tried fencing.
Some autistics harbor hostility toward organized sports and for a long time, so did I. Why spend three or more hours in front of the TV for, what, an hour of actual gameplay? In between commercials, stoppages, delays, the bloviating of various personages…ugh. And the half-time show? Where’s that asteroid?
I’m in my fifties now and still don’t actively watch sports; playing would probably involve a trip to the ER. But on occasion I listen to a football game while I’m doing chores on the weekend—it’s something about the whistle, the bantering commentary, and the crowd takes me back to autumn decades ago. Football meant it was the weekend. Football meant my father was home, finally able to devote time and attention to something that wasn’t work.
There he’d be on the floor, pillow behind his head, watching the game, the dog curled up in one arm and the cat on his chest, both fast asleep. He was never a demonstrative fan. He didn’t jump or yell or gesticulate. But every so often he had something insightful to say:
Don’t carry the ball like a loaf of bread!
And in the kitchen, me, my sister, and my mother would try not to laugh.
Mike Minnis is a guest blogger and client. His books can be purchased on Amazon. Visit his website at: www.michaelminnisbooks.com/index.htm
I hated gym class. I hated it more than math, which is saying something. Math was difficult for me, but it didn’t involve being picked last (or next to last, if I was lucky) solely for the purpose of disappointing the team I’d been conscripted into. Math problems don’t come flying at you at 40 or 50 miles per hour, either. And if you miss a problem in math, no teammates groan and complain in collective disappointment.
My young mind wandered, and this was a mistake because lo and behold the ball was suddenly coming toward me, up from on high like an incoming mortar round. I said a few choice words under my breath and sprang awkwardly into action. My guess is that for many people it’s an easy catch, but then I wasn’t many people. A softball thumping off your sternum hurts, in case you’re wondering. Add to this the ball nimbly avoiding my glove and you had the usual dreary end to first period gym class.
It wasn’t entirely for lack of trying on my part; every now and then I decided now was the time to try out a sport so I would fit in with my peers. My father helped where he could, but looking back I think we both realized my heart wasn’t in it. No amount of practice shooting basketballs after school was going to make me even a passable player. I also realized that there was much more to this--far more—than just rote practice from the free throw line. Was I willing to put in the required effort toward something I wasn’t interested in? No, not really.
Sports itself presents a problem for me, like many autistics, because either too much is happening too quickly, or nothing is happening at all, and just when you can assess the situation too much is happening too quickly again. One misstep, one second off, and it’s over. You’re cooked. Travel with the basketball during gym, and I could expect some idiot to bring my mistake up on the bus ride home.
All I thought was, why do differently shaped balls and what I can or can’t do with them have such impact on my social life?
And this:
“An analysis of children and teens in the SPARK autism study found that 87 percent had problems with balance and coordination. That analysis used data from almost 12,000 SPARK participants ages 5 to 15.”
I don’t recall having problems with balance, but coordination, possibly. My fine motor skills were and are very good, but my gross motor skills are somewhat debatable. Good with pencils, bad with baseballs.
Solo sports like tennis, golf and cycling appeal more to autistics. They can progress at their own pace—martial arts seem to be particularly popular. Exercise also offers physical activity—I took up jogging and then weight-lifting for a time. In college I tried fencing.
Some autistics harbor hostility toward organized sports and for a long time, so did I. Why spend three or more hours in front of the TV for, what, an hour of actual gameplay? In between commercials, stoppages, delays, the bloviating of various personages…ugh. And the half-time show? Where’s that asteroid?
I’m in my fifties now and still don’t actively watch sports; playing would probably involve a trip to the ER. But on occasion I listen to a football game while I’m doing chores on the weekend—it’s something about the whistle, the bantering commentary, and the crowd takes me back to autumn decades ago. Football meant it was the weekend. Football meant my father was home, finally able to devote time and attention to something that wasn’t work.
There he’d be on the floor, pillow behind his head, watching the game, the dog curled up in one arm and the cat on his chest, both fast asleep. He was never a demonstrative fan. He didn’t jump or yell or gesticulate. But every so often he had something insightful to say:
Don’t carry the ball like a loaf of bread!
And in the kitchen, me, my sister, and my mother would try not to laugh.
Mike Minnis is a guest blogger and client. His books can be purchased on Amazon. Visit his website at: www.michaelminnisbooks.com/index.htm
