Last night, I was sitting around my house when my father mentioned an old teacher I had in eighth grade. We’ll call him David. I didn’t remember David, but I knew that I didn’t like him.

I scurried to my room to quickly find my old yearbook. Like most things in my room, it tried to crawl away when I turned on the light. I opened the book, found the faculty and staff, and located David. Man, did I hate him!

He once called me into the office and accused me of smearing Carmex all over the wall. The real story involved a buddy of mine and me, who’s name actually is David–we’ll call him David II. The original David (the bad guy), we’ll call Evil David. My friend and I walked into the bathroom, noticed the Carmex on the wall, and left. Two small children were there and saw us. They told Evil David we had done it. Not the case.

I stated my claim to Evil David. He told me sometimes it’s bad to be popular. Just because you sat by yourself in middle school, high school, college, graduate school, and wrote your thesis paper for your Ph. D. on “sitting alone and being a loser,” doesn’t exactly mean you know what it’s like to be popular in middle school. It ruins people.

I was the star of the soccer team. I could hit balls into the goal with my head. I could “Bend it like Beckham!” So, naturally, I thought God gave me the talent to be the star of every sport. Wrong! I was too short for basketball, and was kicked off track and field for just running through the hurdles, so I decided to try out for the baseball team.

I was a pitcher all through Little League, so I tried out for the team pitching. I’m a sidearm thrower and my coach hated it. He told me, “that kind of poppycock don’t belong in this here sport, ya hear me boy!” I would have tried out for the center fielder position, but the all star of the team played center field, so I had no shot. Whatever, I was sure I would make the bench at least.

Dreams of Jose Lima, Derek Bell and Shane Reynolds went through my head the night before the list was put up. There was an extra pep in my step as my mother made breakfast. I walked proudly into school, right to the athletics board, and then to the bathroom where I proceeded to cry.

Okay I didn’t cry, but the point is…I didn’t make the team! This kid, I forgot his name, but he was the pinch hitter/runner. He couldn’t run in a straight line! All my friends were on the team except me. I would ask to hang out with them on a Friday night, and was greeted with, “Sorry, bro! We’s got practizzle!”

Rejected and alone, I turned to my emo girlfriend who assured me that there were worse things in life, such as how everyone was exactly the same except for her

I didn’t watch baseball for two years, which included the Astros going to the World Series. I was so set against baseball that I didn’t even watch my home team play in the greatest event in sports. I was angry, hurt and confused. So, naturally, I left that school and went to the High School for the Performing and Visual Arts to become an actor.

What would have happened if I had made the baseball team? More girlfriends (or non-emo ones- everyone wanted a baseball player).

Self esteem? Years of baseball practice during high school that could have resulted in injury and thus leading me to take steroids? So, is it a good thing I didn’t make the baseball team? Yes. Do I want to end baseball? Yes.

John Paul Green is a freshman theater major. He can be reached for comment at [email protected].