When I was little I used to long to be on a team. I could see that all the other little boys and girls were having a wonderful time playing together, being accepted...having what was called FUN.
I realize now, part of the problem was an inability to understand the absolutely needed skills of 'reading the other player'...in actuality the players on your own team as well as the opposing players. And this has to occur on a moment to moment basis.
It is also now acknowledged in the relevant literature, that people with autistic spectrum disorders are very poor at playing 'ball games', being clumsy, lacking in physical co-ordination, and having trouble knowing where their own bodies are in space. This is a skill absolutely necessary in judging where to be in right field, say, or how to position yourself to catch that pass of the puck.
This 'body lack', which actually originates in the brain, was totally brought home to me three years ago when it was suggested to me that I take Henry, my sweet baby dog, to dog training and flyball instruction. I discovered how difficult it was for me to run and throw the ball at the same time. My head would spin and it was a huge effort just to throw the ball. Some judgemental and ignorant people on the side lines probably put it down to being over weight. I knew it had to be more than that. And it was an interesting 'discovery', when I began exploring that topic.
The reason I am giving you this information is not only for your own 'education', but to demonstrate how vulnerable I am to so-called 'game playing'...athletic types who are used to 'scoring' points in competition, or in this case appearing to win by making the opposing player 'foul'...in other words 'getting back' at a person for perceived 'offences'. In the situation I was in, I was totally 'deeked'. And I am very angry about it.
Because playing ball games involves way more than being able to throw the ball. It involves strategies. And that involves the forementioned 'reading of the opponent'. I am totally incapable of strategies or 'reading'. I was lied to and set up. But then what's new? That is a passive aggressive stance anyway. Thinking you have won by sabotaging the other player. Building yourself up, by putting the other person down. Done 'nicely' of course.
I do not know a lot about sports. I know something, but not a lot. I was always grateful to be surrounded by athletic males from whom I could vicariously enjoy their successes. One sport of which I knew more than most was Tennis. It is also the only sport where one can actually 'score' a point, not through your own efforts, but through the other player 'making a mistake'.
The incident the other day has reminded me of the three times in my life where I was involved in 'sports' directly. The first memory was when I was about five or six years old. I was finally 'allowed' to play with the other kids because they were so short for a team. I had the puck. I made a run down the ice. Everyone was hollering. I thought they were cheering. I wacked my stick on the puck as hard as I could. The puck went in the net. I was victorious. I was ecstatic. I had scored. When 'my friends' finally got through to me, through my mis-conception of joy, I was told "I had scored for the wrong team". I had put the puck in my own net.
Of course, I was mortified. I slunk off the ice. Humiliated. Crying. My mother didn't understand the situation when I went home to tell her.
A few years later, in the early years at primary school, I longed again to 'be part of the crowd'. All the other kids seemed to be playing baseball. But it was the same as it had always been. Nobody wanted to pick me for a team. And if we were lined up to be picked, I was always picked last...the 'booby prize' for the unfortunately group of players. Still...I begged and begged my parents to get me a baseball glove. Finally, in grade five, (grade five yet, probably 5 years after all the other kids had gloves), my dad, because of his sweet heart, finally managed to secretly go with me to a sports store to look at baseball gloves. I say secretly because, first of all my mother didn't want to spent money on someone with no ability and secondly probalbly thought baseball was a waste of time. (And this was after knowing that my dad had spent so much of his young adult hood coaching kids in sports). But then we ran into another problem. I was left handed. They did not make very many left-handed gloves at that time. And the odd one that was made was way more money than the regular ones. Not like today where cheap 'anything' is shipped over from China for nothing.
The man in the sports store had one left-handed glove. And I knew nothing of the 'correct glove' that was needed. It was a flat, stiff thing. BUT IT WAS A GLOVE, BY GOLLY. Not like today, where someone would step in and tell you to put a small ball inside it, tie it up and put it under your pillow so that you could create a pocket, for catching. No. Nothing like that. All I remember about my tiny experience with baseball and the glove was being at the school I went to...and my dad was there trying to overcome all odds and 'support' me...and I was up to bat. I struck out. I was the third player to be struck out. I remember looking at my dad...and how he was torn between wanting to support me and being mortified. I was sent to the outfield. The second player up hit a massive fly ball right towards me. I didn't even have to move. I just had to put my glove up and it would come to my glove. I waited for the ball to come...terrified it would hurt. The ball hit my glove. The glove was flat. The ball bounced out. My only opportunity to be a 'hero' evaporated.
Later I stayed in my room and stared at the glove, for hours. I don't remember playing baseball again. I only remember that I was an embarrassment and a failure. And totally bewildered as to why that was the case.
The other incident that I will always remember and is one of the most enjoyable memories of my life...is when my son was about in grade two. He was athletic, right from the start. And very good at many sports. Mostly he didn't want to play with his mom...too embarrassing no doubt. But one afternoon we played catch in the back yard. The neighbour kid and family were out. They were also very good at sports. They approved. We must have tossed the ball back and forth for two hours or more. I was totally blissed out. He showed me all the good pitches. He could pitch well even at that age.
Why am I talking about these incidents in relation to this more recent incident? One recounting is very personal. The other one more philosophical. I do tend to compress many things all together sometimes...and try to relate their common themes.
I guess mostly what this all comes down to is always the same thing: I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE INNER GAME OF TENNIS...the one Prem Rawat has shown me. The one I can play with myself...my true self. The game that is fulfillment and satisfaction. All other games are shallow and false...and offer me no real enjoyment.
Wed. Feb. 7
I have come to think again about the whole topic of the tennis match. Match Point. (I believe that was a movie I saw this summer, come to think of it. A very good movie. Perhaps a Woody Allen movie). Tennis is always a good metaphor anyway.
I am trying to get over my resentment since that is counterproductive to feeling the inner game.
I feel bad too, that because of that incident, I was not able to 'take in' some possible compliments about my behavior this morning. I was determined just to stay away from all of them. I know this is not a good way to respond to anything. But I hardly care any more. I am attacked from all sides. And I do mean from all sides. There are too many 'groups' interested in my so-called activities. And from many different arenas.
And for what reason I must ask. That I do not understand.
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