Other than baseball, my interest in sports ranges
from little to none.
And my lack of athletic prowess was well established in
I had a way of conveniently forgetting to tote along
a pair of slacks, so I was unable to participate in
tumbling. This move netted my one and only “D”.
Getting smacked in the face on a frigid day with
an ice cold soccer ball sealed the deal. No Olympic
trials in my future.
In high school, the girls’ Pep Club was a bit militaristic
to my way of thinking.
Everyone was required to wear matching black skirts
and red sweaters. To obtain a letter for the sweater,
members earned points by attending meetings and
selling game day ribbons bearing clever sayings,
such as: “Stew The Benson Bunnies.”
In response to this insanity, I devised an admittedly
devious solution. On those rare occasions when I wished
to attend an athletic event and sit with the Pep Club,
I borrowed the official sweater of my best friend’s sister.
I blended right in with the rest of the group and from
a distance, no one could detect I was chanting the wrong
words at the wrong time. BINGO!
Those of you reading this are henceforth sworn to secrecy.
Should the school administration get wind of this, they
could well revoke my high school diploma and place me in