By Peyton Andino

I towered over everyone by the time I was 11.

It was isolating to see how short everyone was and how easily I could peer over the tops of their heads. Each boy was shorter, every girl out of sight and whatever conversation I wasn’t a part of happened closer to the ground.

Whether in the stack of books I kept on my desk or the ‘boyish’ way I dressed, there was something about me that made me out of the ordinary. There were pages scattered on my desk of abandoned ideas and ways for me to fit in.

I’ve heard many sermons on forming connections and guides on social complacency, advising me that sports were the best way to get to know others. 

Despite this, I spent hours glaring at those playing sports without me, knowingly or unknowingly. I was a resentful kid with books covering most of my face, the words giving me solace as I watched the fun happen around me. 

There was laughter, screaming and a key to making lasting relationships through sports that seemed to have skipped me—no matter how many times I was told how mature I was for my age.

When my classmate invited me to join in on a game of kickball, I hesitantly put down my book and stood in line, waiting to be picked. 

Even though I was one of the last chosen, it didn’t matter. Someone chose me. I was wanted on a team of my peers and I could make them happy if I properly fulfilled the arbitrary role they gave me.

Suddenly, it didn’t matter how much taller I was or how odd I acted. I could kick, I could throw, I could run. All of these things became parts of my identity faster than I had ever expected them to. For a girl with no coordination, I found some through sports.

It filled me with an energy I didn’t realize my once-lethargic self had. This fervour sent electric jolts through my veins every time I waited in those schoolyard lines.

This was it. It was my time to be noticed.

I threw footballs and learned how to tackle, kicked soccer balls and picked up goalkeeping—most importantly, I ran faster than everyone else.

However, a cross-country meet in my final years of elementary school was enough to ruin everything for me.

I had already made it to the second round of the tournament. Days were spent on the beach and around the block of my school training for that day. To me, the second round mattered. It was the one step before the cities tournament, one I knew would give me the confidence that would help overcome all of the negative feelings I had towards sports before. The buzz of people grew louder and cheers climbed higher while the sun beat down on me and the air horn went off.

I gained speed with each padded landing of my feet on the grass below me. I was in front. I looked behind to see a horde of girls catching up, and they hunted me down as my Costco Puma socks became soaked with morning dew and sweat.

Beads of sweat poured down from my hairline onto my back and my ears rang louder as my breath picked up. My clothes became uncomfortable and itchy as they all began to pass me by. I was scared of these girls, as their narrowed eyes and harsh gazes judged me in the same manner I assumed everyone had done before.

No, I can do this.

I picked up speed, swinging my arms in imitation of the other girls around me—how I had watched everyone else do so in the races before mine. Each thump of my shoes shot pain up my tendons and tension struck my lungs.

As I came towards the finish line, I looked back and saw that the only thing behind me was Woodbine Beach, the waters of which I had grown up in.

My legs finally gave out and I paced to a trot before I had even crossed the finish line.

A ribbon of participation was given to the last place winner and it went discarded on the ground.

It did matter to me how I was perceived.

I wasn’t good enough to continue—it was as simple as that. Rejection hit me like a door slamming in my face and I turned away from sports as if I was no longer welcome. How could I be? I was lanky, awkward and unable to be graceful or precise with the movements I once so confidently made. 

Sports had shuttered me out and taken my confidence along with it. Everyone told me to try again. Basketball, volleyball—sports that only a girl with my height could fulfill­­—were thrown at my face as if people wished to rub more salt in my wounds.

Washing that salt out came by realizing what else I had.

There was more to life than sports. 

There was more to life than the boys club that I had very desperately tried to work my way into throughout the years and the girl groups I wished to find belonging in. The truth was there was no way I could have found affirmation in a group I only connected with for my ego. 

Maybe this was me giving up.

Inside my sketchbook lies countless drawings of people in action. Sports, stretches and movements are stagnant at one point of time. I sit and stare as everyone around me finds the joy in the games that I was once so desperate to play. 

The difference between me and them was joy.

When I played sports, I sought glory and accomplishment that could only come from the affirmations of others, relying on placement, accolades and reinforcement to keep me on track.

I’ll let everyone else have their sports. I’ve always preferred my pages.