Shame

I’m not sure if I hate groups because I was never welcome, or if I was never welcome because I hate groups. Either way, I find the company of others to be painful, and fraught with shame.
I remember fifth grade recess most vividly, especially in the Spring. All the boys, and some of the girls, would somehow know what the activity was going to be for recess. Most likely, while they were at the table eating lunch (to which I was not invited) the cool kids would hold council and select a sport. I would spend the first few minutes of recess navigating the yard for the crowd of activity.
Wall ball was my favorite, a tennis ball, or sometimes a racquetball (more bounce) would be thrown against the wall, whoever caught it would try to peg the thrower before he could touch the wall. If you dropped it, you also had to touch the wall before you got hit with the ball. I doubt I was very good at it; I wasn’t good at any sport, but at least I couldn’t be excluded from it. It was a democratic, egalitarian sport.
The team sports, however, where hierarchical. Captains were chosen, usually Danny and Brian, both rich kids with athletic grace. They would take turns picking teammates. Eric, Scott, Matt, and Mike R. would usually get chosen first. Then the second tier, the kids who weren’t as popular, but had some athletic skill. Then the weak kids, and the girls who wanted to play would get chosen. The weakest girl, Karen, and I were always left till last. They would grudgingly choose her, then me. Of course, this was if there were an even number. Otherwise, I was sent away, off to play on the swings, or the sand lot. Somehow, I never stopped hanging around, hoping I would be allowed to play. That was basically how fifth grade went for me.
Starting in sixth grade I began to develop some defense for the raw pain. Early on, it was mostly expressed in violence. I got in dozens of fights that year, spent hour after hour first in detention and then day after day in suspension. Then I started playing hooky, which resulted in more suspensions. The next year, I went to private school, where things weren’t really much better.
It wasn’t until high school, where I found a persona of detached aloofness, that I managed to really find a place for myself. Of course, my persona wouldn’t accommodate a person who strived athletically so I mocked sports and the general culture of it. I was so convincing that I didn’t even recognized it as a defense. I thought jocks really were stupid, sports were a waste of time, and teamwork was how the “man” kept the sheep in line. Suckers.
Sometime in my twenties, I began to understand how good athletic exertion could feel. I began with individual activities, running, bicycling, cross-country skiing. Then moving into Aikido, where movement is semi-choreographed with a partner, I began to understand the fullness of exertion coupled with camaraderie. Even to the changing in the locker room, joking about what had been done, or was about to be done. I still felt like an outsider, but I had really glimpsed the world of the jock, it seemed within my grasp.
A number of knee injuries later, and the limitations of living in Cairo (and being a family man), my athletic life had nearly disappeared. My weight, and general health have been really suffering because of it. I’m becoming a fat man, something that, because of my dad’s history with weight problems, really terrifies me. Last December, I began playing ultimate Frisbee a few times a week. Its a good bunch of folks who play, a mixture of Egyptians and foreigners, older and younger, and a variety of skills. I’m not very good, and really, really out of shape, but I’ve felt really welcome.
Until the last few weeks, that is. Lately, I’ve begun to really notice how bad I am at the game. Its very strange; I shouldn’t be as bad as I am. I’m a big person with a good reach, can throw and catch pretty well, and, while I’m not very fast, I’m gradually getting better. But somehow, I feel I’m exceptionally bad, and I can’t figure out why. For a while, in the beginning, I chalked it up to not understanding the strategy of the game, but, after five months, I’ve got at least a rudimentary handle on that. It must be something else, but I don’t know what it is.
Yesterday, this all came to a head when one of the older players began yelling at me on the field, first for not catching a pass he had thrown badly, and then a few minutes later for not playing defense well enough. He’s an older guy, who’s usually pretty nice to me, though he does spend a lot of time telling everybody on his team what they’re doing wrong (although its never his fault, of course). I’ve found him annoying in the past, but, since he’s rarely directed it at me, or at least not much, I’ve just ignored him.
Yesterday, my sensitivity at not playing well, combined with his harshness and I took him aside to have a talk. I told him to lay off of me a bit, that I was getting frustrated with his comments. He responded by really getting in my face and complaining that I wasn’t putting any effort forth. This went back and forth for a while until I, satisfied I had gotten my message across, and sure that he wasn’t going to acknowledge me, went back to playing. I wonder how the other players on the team viewed this. We had our argument in the middle of the field; I’m sure everyone was watching, but nobody mentioned it. He’s definitely one of the cool kids, and I’m, as usual, on the outside, so I’m not going to push it.
Now, the rest of the game, he left me alone, and I actually was playing pretty well. But I just felt, and feel so angry. I’m on the outside again. Never one of the in group. It’s the same in everything I do. It makes me want to cry. I’m thirty-three years old. My life, in general terms is pretty damn good. I have an amazing wife, a job that I love more than I ever thought possible, my daughter is a wonder and a joy that grows everyday and I’m blessed to have another on the way.

Tonight, however, I’m lying awake, wracked with anger. My chest is tight with tension and I can think of nothing but the tournament we’re having next week. Oh, I want to beat him so! I want to win! But the fact that I’m sitting here, dreaming for this, means I’ve already lost.