I'm not into sports. See, I've always been a klutz. My papaw once said my Aunt Celeste could walk through an almost-empty room which had an ironing board in the far corner, and, somehow, she'd manage to get her feet tangled up in it. Unfortunately, whatever branch of the family tree those genes flowed through to reach Aunt Celeste had me dangling from it, too.

All during my childhood years, I was the last chosen when we divided into teams to play ball. Or to play any of the other games which required teamwork and cooperation. And a modicum of athletic ability.

“Aw, come on, James! Pick me, pick me!” I pleaded. 

He ignored me. “Listen, Charlie. I had the little pipsqueak on my team last time. It's your turn to take her now.”

Even though I realized James had a point in trying to make sure I ended up on the other team, it didn't stop the resentment which rose inside nor the embarrassment which painted my face a bright red when Shirley smirked and stuck her tongue out at me. 

Peggy Ann was always one of the first ones chosen. Peggy Ann didn't trip over her own feet when she ran to base or to get the ball. And Peggy Ann didn't close her eyes and cringe when a ball came her way. She stepped right up and caught it.

At last, I gave up on being a part of the group and determined to find something I could enjoy. For a while, I watched others play stickball in the street from the anonymous shelter of my bedroom window, wishing I'd been blessed with athletic ability instead of  straight brown hair and a penchant for reading.

But time has a way of passing, and so do childhood problems.

For my sixteenth birthday, Aunt Celeste's present was a blue silk shirt that matched my eyes. It was the most beautiful shirt I'd ever seen.

“Oh, my, Wanda,” she said when I opened the box and held the shirt to my shoulders. “Ain't you just the prettiest little thing!”

She smoothed my hair back from my face with beautifully-manicured fingers. “But, honey, we've got to do something with your hair – we can't have you hidin' that pretty face. I'm gonna set you up with an appointment next Saturday with Mr. Jonas. He'll know what do about that hair.”

And, indeed, he did.

Sunday morning, when I walked into my Sunday School class, wearing my new silk shirt and a Mr. Jonas perm that had my hair flowing in silken waves to my shoulder, I thought James' eyes were going to pop right out of his head. And he pushed Peggy Ann over on the bench to make a space for me beside him.

“Come sit here, Wanda,” he said.

“No. Come sit by me,” Charlie said.

And the competition didn't end there. 

Finally, a sport I can enjoy..