Thanks, Mom

A lot of people tend to think I'm a generally unathletic person. And maybe, considering the fact that I haven't regularly played a sport (not counting high school PE) for, oh, I don't know, about A DECADE now (treadmill running and gym foraying, not withstanding, of course) I guess I can't really blame them.

Still, whenever anyone learns about the long list of sports I used to play way back in the day, they tend to be surprised. Mind you, this athletic propensity of mine was not because I was of the sports-loving type, but rather because my mom wanted me to be as ordinary an American kid as I could possibly be.

Say, what?

Well, by talking with other moms in the PTA, she got this strange notion that all American kids played sports, and that if I ever wanted to be an ordinary American kid (apparently my actually having been BORN and RAISED in America wasn't enough, but whatever), I was going to have to play every single sport known to mankind. I mean, never mind the fact that most American kids I knew went home after school to play with their Nintendos and Gameboys and to pig out on Cheetos and twinkies, and that they never so much as touched a baseball HAT, never mind a baseball bat.

So while I -- introverted bibliophile that I was -- wanted nothing more than to sit in my room with my nose buried in any of the Baby-Sitters Club, Sweet Valley (don't tell me you never had/have any guilty pleasures), Roald Dahl, or Jane Austen books, I was instead relegated to spending many a traumatizing afternoon under the sun.

As a result, throughout 4th to 6th grade, I was thus plagued by the following:

***SOCCER***
Ahhh. Soccer, soccer, soccer (or, as the British would call it, football, which, when you really think about it, makes so much more sense, as it's a game that involves kicking a ball with your, you know, foot). Out of all the sports my mom signed me up for, soccer was perhaps the one sport that plagued me the most. Indeed, it was none other than soccer that gave me the most nightmares and made me want to scream, "BUT I DON'T WANNA GO!!!!!" whenever Friday afternoon swung around.

I was the smallest kid on the team -- basically your typical midget-sized Asian kid -- and God did that soccer ball scare the crap out of me. It'd come flying at me from out of nowhere, and instead of running towards it and ramming it back down the field from whence it came, I'd, well, run away from it as fast as my little stub-like legs could carry me.

Hey, human instinct and all that, ya know.

Of course, I soon realized that if I didn't want to sit on the bleachers the entire season like a total loser, I was going to have to swallow my fear of fast and flying balls and just kick the living daylights out of that thing, even if it meant getting the wind knocked out of me and falling backwards on my ass like a Dork with a capital D.

Which happened more times than I'd like to admit.

Oh, and as if the whole getting-the-wind-knocked-out-of-me and falling-backwards-on-my-ass prospect wasn't frightening enough already, I soon learned that our team was called the Blue Bruisers -- THE BLUE BRUISERS! If that doesn't paint horrifically terrifying images in your tender 9-year-old mind, then I don't know what else does.

The thing is, there were these two girls on the team -- Meg and Amy -- who went to a different school than I did. Our team was made up of a variety of girls who came from various schools in the Northern California Santa Clara county area, both public and private, I myself having hailed from ye average Los Altos public school. Meg and Amy, however, were students at a certain private school, and were, simply put, the SNOTTIEST witches in the world.

And when I say witch, I actually mean another word completely that sounds a lot like witch, but starts with the same letter that birkenstocks does.

Anyway, during practice, Coach Boyd would usually pair us up randomly and have us practice by kicking the ball back and forth and blocking said ball with our foreheads -- something I am convinced has since caused me permanent neurological damange, as I am certain my current inability to comprehend anything math or physics-related is directly linked to those very crucial moments when my 9-year-old highly sensitive and developing brain was forced to collide head-on with soccer balls that travelled at what felt like 100 miles an hour.

Now, on occasion, I would get paired up with either Meg or Amy. Whenever this happened, they -- rather than kick the ball in my general direction so I could, you know, RETURN THE BALL -- would instead kick it about ten million feet away from where I was standing. And in the opposite direction, no less.

NOW WERE THEY W(B)ITCHES, OR WERE THEY W(B)ITCHES?

Because of this, I would have to go scrambling off in the opposite direction after the ball like a total nutcase, and whenever Coach Boyd -- who had impeccable timing, I tell you -- turned around, in his eyes he would see this totally frazzled-looking kid racing after a ball that had managed to land way over by, like, the kindergarten sandbox or something.

This made me appear to be an even crappier soccer player than I really was (and let me tell you, I was pretty damn crappy). This was not fun. Not fun at all. Whoever said soccer could be fun? Who? WHO???

(Of course, this was way back in the day; way back before I knew certain soccer players existed, namely strong female role models like way cool Mia Hamm, and appealing eye candy players like way hot David Beckham. But still.)

Unable to tolerate any of this w(b)itchery much longer, there was this one time I got so incredibly infuriated, I actually ran up to them w(b)itches and told them to CUT THE CRAP OR I'LL USE MY KICK-ASS MUAY THAI MOVES ON YOU AND GOUGE YOUR EYEBALLS OUT.

Of course, I didn't -- and still don't -- know any kick-ass Muay Thai moves, but that doesn't mean I should deny my natural right as a Thai to use said excuse in extremely dire circumstances.

Anyway, despite my very menacing and genuinely hostile threat, said w(b)itchery went on for the remainder of the season (though they did back off for about a week or so, much to my short-lived delight). Nevertheless, it was all worth it, because when we played the final game against this really kick-ass (no pun intended) Amazonian-filled team from San Jose, we totally creamed them, thus winning the Santa Clara County girl's soccer league championships.

Even cooler than that, however, was the fact that three of the most crucial blocks made during that final leg of the game -- thus preventing three potential goals -- were made by none other than yours truly.

Really! I almost couldn't believe it myself!

I mean, there I was, standing around thinking about how I would so much rather be reading about Jessica and Elizabeth and the rest of the Sweet Valley gang, when this total AMAZONIAN girl came barreling at me at, like, 200 miles an hour.

I thought -- knew -- I was dead meat.

I gulped, and I prayed. Hard. After all, seeing as how I was the smallest player on the entire field, and thus the girl most likely to cave in and let her pass without putting up much of a fight, Amazonian Girl naturally decided to barrel on over in my general direction. But wait, here's where things get really weird:

Just as she was nearing me, I suddenly got this sudden surge of, what I can only assume was sheer insanity, and went charging right at her.

What happened next totally boggles me to this day. After colliding head-on, I managed to kick the ball from right under her nose. Seriously. The ball went careening in the opposite direction, and Amazonian Girl, so clearly surprised, fell on her butt. She gave me this really nasty look, but seeing as how I was too shaken and dazed, I hardly noticed. In fact, in my moment of temporary insanity, I managed to block her two more times that game, thus earning me the Best Blocker award.

Tee hee. Meg and Amy didn't get any awards. Not that I'm gloating or anything.

Anyway, it was a shame I didn't fall completely and totally in love with soccer until the last game of the season. Nevertheless, though I used to hate its guts, soccer will always and forever hold a special place in my heart.

Which brings me to...

***BALLET***
Talk about a total one-eighty. Right after soccer season ended, my mom promptly went and signed me up for ballet.

BALLET!

In an attempt to reason with her, I said, "Um, graceful, elegant, swan-like girls are supposed to take ballet. Did it not occur to you that I AM THE MOST UN-SWAN-LIKE GIRL ON THE PLANET?" But no, my mom brushed my comment aside and said that I was being ridiculous, especially since all girls have at least a small modicum of grace within them that's just waiting to emerge and come into full bloom.

Hah, I scoffed. Go ahead and sign me up, then. I will make you eat your words when, after two seconds in a tutu, you will come to learn the hard way that your first-born was born without said modicum of grace.

But then she threatened me by saying that it was either ballet or tap. Take your pick.

I obviously chose ballet, because everyone knows tap dancing is for dorks. (Alas, I came to sincerely regret this decision some ten years later when my celtophile self learned that the basis for Irish dance is, indeed, tap dance.)

So ballet it was. I went to class, which was taught by Mademoiselle Anastasia, and who was obviously SO NOT French, but who insisted -- INSISTED, I tell you -- that we all call her Mademoiselle Anastasia. Or else. Or else, what? I honestly don't know. No one ever bothered to question her further, because between her tattooed-on eyeliner and eyebrows, not to mention her many emphatic "zut alors!" and "merde!", she was SCARY AS HELL.

In the end, just like soccer, ballet ended up surprising me, because, as it turned out, I actually COULD do plies. And, hey, who would have thought that prancing around in pointe shoes and a tutu could actually be...fun? Because it was. It really was. In fact, I fell so in love with ballet, that I came thisclose to asking my mom to seriously consider allowing me to further my ballet studies by sending me off to Julliard (hey, every girl can dream).

However, my dancing dreams came to a screeching halt when Mademoiselle Anastasia took her pointe shoes off one day, and I witnessed -- in total horror, mind you -- the nasty way her feet had sprouted these utterly grotesque, stub-like wings that had begun to seriously resemble the bound feet of my poor female Chinese ancestors.

I promptly kissed ballet goodbye and went running from it quicker than you could say "a tout a l'heure, ma cher."

Alas, summer came calling, which brings me to...

***SWIMMING***
When my mom signed me up for swimming lessons, I, for once, didn't put up a fight. In fact, I actually looked forward to swimming lessons because, even though it was the summer of '91 and Titanic had yet another 6 years to hit the cinema, I knew full well the significance of knowing how to stay afloat, especially should I ever end up stranded at sea without a life vest, floatation device, or Leonardo DiCaprio to hang on to for dear life.

Also, I soon found out that, instead of allowing me to revel in a stress-free summer vacation, my mom had gone and signed me up for day camp. And not just any kind of day camp, either, but SPORTS day camp. SPORTS.

So, seeing as how swimming was pretty much the numero uno activity at Golden Eagle Sports Camp, I said, rather enthusiastically, "Sure, Mom, I'm all for swimming lessons."

Which I was, until I actually got into the pool, of course.

After my first lesson, I had a pretty hard time getting into the swimming groove of things again. Maybe this had to do with the fact that, during my very first swimming lesson, I NEARLY DROWNED because the swimming instructor let go of me to rush off and save this snot-faced kid who'd been playing on the diving board and had accidentally slipped into the deep end of the pool while doing a really moronic Barney the Purple Dinosaur impersonation.

I mean, never mind that I was only in five-foot deep water, an admittedly shallow depth in the grand scheme of things. And even though -- despite my midget-like four-feet height -- I could have easily grabbed onto the wall, I was, however, a) too preoccupied with flailing my arms in a lame imitation of the chicken dance to do so, b) too dumb to turn around and realize that the wall was easily within reach and, you know, RIGHT BEHIND ME, and c) too busy taking in large gulps of water, as I believed then that doing so would thus prevent me from inhaling chlorinated water through my nose.

I obviously wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, if you catch my drift. (Of course, I could attribute this to all the getting-rammed-in-the-head-by-the-soccerball stuff that I'd had to endure during soccer season just a few months prior, but whatever.)

So I soon began to loathe swimming. In fact, I was so scared senseless of swimming that, whenever it came time for swimming lessons, I would fake stomachaches and headaches and -- after learning about the concept of food poisoning and parasites from my all-knowing cousins in Thailand -- even told my mom that I suspected I had a twenty-foot long hookworm writhing away in my colon, and that if she made me continue my swimming lessons, the combination of the aquatic activities and my hookworm friend would no doubt make me DIE.

But did I receive any sympathy from her? NO. Instead, she soon caught on, and as much as I fought and sunk my heels in, away to the community pool I went.

My fear of the water continued to linger, and as a result, I stayed in level 1 with the 6-year-old kiddies for about four weeks, much to the dismay of my swimming instructor, who had since apologized profusely for ditching me and thus wreaking aquatic horror on my then very tender and developing mind.

I would have remained in level 1 for, oh, I don't know, ETERNITY, maybe, if it hadn't been for my dad. One weekend he tricked me into going to the pool with him at one of our Thai friends' house over in Fremont. For the entire day, we hung out in the pool until I was so shriveled, a prune would've looked like a baby's butt next to my very wrinkled self. But finally, after much coaxing and cajoling, my dad eventually got me to loosen my grip and float -- FLOAT! -- smack center in the middle of the swimming pool. Like, miles and miles away from the walls...the very walls from which I'd once held on to with a deathgrip.

By the end of the weekend, I was floating on my back and doing the backstroke like a 6-month-old fetus in her mommy's amniotic fluid-filled uterus. Come Monday afternoon, my swimming instructor didn't know what had hit her. Needless to say, she was ecstatic and I was thus promoted to level 2, eventually reaching level 10 two summers later when I later learned to do the backflip off the diving board. I can't exactly do said backflips off the diving board now (you know, old age and all), but I attribute my ability to swim and stay afloat in water to my old man. So, thanks Dad!

And no, the list ain't nearly over yet, because now it's time for...

***BASKETBALL***
As mentioned earlier, I was one seriously vertically challenged kid. The fact that I ever managed to make it to my current five-sixish -- five-seven, even, if I stretch my neck hard enough and imagine myself as a llama in my mind's eye -- is indeed a miracle; one that still manages to boggle and amaze me to this very day (delayed growth spurt much?). So, when my mom told me that she wanted to sign me up for basketball next, I had a cow. A serious cow. "How," I cried in utter pre-teen angst, "do you expect my midget-like self to steal the ball -- never mind actually shoot and score -- from those AMAZONIAN white kids????"

Mind you, at four-feet, anyone taller than four-foot six was a regular Goliath to me. As if soccer hadn't been traumatizing enough already, now my mom wanted to sign me up for basketball, the most height-obsessed sport ever known to man?

I was thisclose to disowning my parents, namely my mom.

Nevertheless, I decided to give it a shot (again, pun not intended). I mean, I'd been through soccer, ballet, and swimming already, surely I could survive basketball, right?

WRONG.

I joined the team, and -- OH. MY. GOD. -- everyone else on the team was at least ten heads taller than me (read: everyone else on the team was at least four-six or taller). I almost expected the coach to go, "Um, you there, midget wringing her hands in nervous fright? Yeah, you. You're too short to play with us mighty giants. Scram."

But alas, much to my dismay, he never did. Looked like I was just going to have to rough it.

And rough it I did. Every time I tried to steal the ball, some huge-ass girl would shove me aside. In fact, I was scoring more bruises on my butt than I was actual points. Needless to say, it was a very sad and sorry time for my 10-year-old self. I hated basketball. I hated the NBA. I hated Michael Jordan for endorsing Nike and telling everyone to "just do it", because as much as I tried and tried and tried, I OBVIOUSLY COULDN'T.

But then, just as miraculously as I'd managed to block three goals during soccer season the year before, I was again blessed by the Fairy For Seriously Athletically Challenged Kids during one of our final games, because here's what happened:

Not only did I manage to get the ball in my hands long enough to attempt to shoot, but I actually scored. SCORED! And twice! TWICE!

Pretty soon basketball became my new favorite sport. I'd head down the street to Los Altos High and shoot hoops there with my dad every weekend. In fact, I became so hooked, I used to spend every single summer watching the NBA finals. I was the biggest Chicago Bulls fan (Jordan, Rodman, Pippen -- they were my HEROES), until, of course, high school came along and I became more interested in boys than sweaty, temperamental NBA players...

But anyways, moving on. Just when I was beginning to seriously toughen up, my mom decided to go and sign me up for...

***GYMNASTICS***
WHY??? Why, of all things that are holy, GYMNASTICS???, I implored of my mother, whom I had long since concluded was insane. Because, she replied all-knowingly, it is a beautiful sport that shows off the human prowess and dexterity to the best of its ability. (WTH?)

Now, I know I said I also approached soccer, ballet, swimming, and basketball with much fear and trepidation, but let me tell you, gymnastics really took the cake. First of all, all that required stretching? Nuh uh. So not gonna happen. No way was I touching my scapula with my toes. Oh, and that swinging from the parallel bars thing? That Chinese girl, Shirley, who I used to know in 1st grade back at Fremont Christian School, might have mispronounced my name by calling me Ling -- Thai for monkey -- but no way was I doing any monkey-swinging from any parallel bars of any type anytime soon. No way.

But my mother turned deaf ears to my fervent pleas, and went ahead and signed me up anyway.

And well -- surprise, surprise -- I fell totally and utterly in love with gymnastics. In fact, I was convinced that it was my calling. MY PURPOSE IN LIFE. Finally, after so much trial and error, I'd finally found a sport that actually EMBRACED short midgets like myself. With hardly any effort at all, I could jump on the trampoline, do double backflips in the air, cartwheels on the balance beams, and even, much to my delight, the whole monkey-swinging thing on the parallel bars.

I was so, so certain I was going to be the next Dominique Moceanu.

But alas, my dreams were promptly shattered when a story came out about a girl who fell from the balance beam one day and was left completely comatose. Before I knew it, my parents had quickly withdrawn me from gymnastics and I never saw another balance beam or parallel bar ever again. Sigh.

With a reluctant heart, I moved on to other things, namely...

***SOFTBALL***
Why the game is called softball rather than baseball is beyond me. Do the way sexist little league Big Guys think that, by calling it SOFTBALL, the game will appeal more to us wimpy girls, and that we will thus be more likely to pick up our bats and take a swing (hee, okay, pun totally intended this time) at the game?

Jeez. Anyway, at the age of 11, I had toughened up quite a bit by now and actually got around to asking my mom if I could try out for softball (I know, talk about the biggest shocker of the year). She, in a moment of sheer joy, said, YES!

So I did.

And I got in.

And man, did I have fun. So maybe I wasn't the best batter in the world (I mean, I could connect bat to ball all right, but it's not like I was a regular home run-scoring Babe Ruth or anything), but I was pretty damn good in the catching and throwing department. I guess that, because of all the sports I'd been playing for the past three years, my arm had toughened up considerably, and that, instead of having limp string beans as arms, I had, you know, the slightest semblance of muscle attached to my bones. This was good, because compared to shapely biceps, string beans as arms aren't really all that attractive (I'm talking to you, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Ritchie).

Of course, compared to the cow-legs-for-arms I've got now, I would probably trade them in for my old string beans anyday. But never mind me, I've gone off on a tangent again.

Alas, this thus concludes my childhood forays into the athletic world. I may have cursed my mother a zillion and one times during those tumultuous childhood years for torturing me by putting me through all those sports (jeez, and I haven't even gotten started on the Thai classical dance, piano, flute, khim, Spanish, and art lessons she also signed me up for), but looking back, I now realize that I needed it more than ever. After all, through all that traumatizing agony, I came to learn about teamwork, sportsmanship, how to lose like a winner, how to stick to something and not give up, how to toughen up my sorry wuss-like ass, and, most importantly, HOW TO DEAL WITH NASTY, SNOT-FACED W(B)ITCHES!

YEAH!

Of course, I'm not exactly a butt-kicking Lara Croft type now, but at least I know how to hold my own. Most of the time, at least.

So really, what I guess I'm trying to say is, thanks, Mom. Thanks a whole lot. :)

~*~
Currently Playing: Fix You by Coldplay. I've really been vegging on Coldplay as of late. Fix You's one of the prettiest songs I've heard in a really long time.

Currently Reading: 1,000 Places to See Before You Die by Patricia Schultz. My brother was awarded this book this past weekend at his school's annual Speech Day. Apparently he has the most spirit and is the most participative in the whole of Byron House (yes, it's all very cool and British; they have HOUSES, just like in Harry Potter). I personally cannot even conceive of him emanating any form of participation, as a lot of said participation is usually lacking at home, like whenever he mutters he's too lazy to PUT THE DAMN TOILET SEAT DOWN when he's done using it. Anyway, about the book: For a travel freak like myself, this is all very bible-esque for me. I've only been to about 50 of the places in that thing, which is really kind of sad when you think about it. Hopefully I can get around to visiting at least 200 of those 1,000 awe-inspiring places before I die.