Being a Sport - 2

"I am saying I don’t want to talk to you. You must be a big Carl Lewis or a Ben Johnson fan but that does not mean you make fun of Marion," S14 hissed.

Fantastic... With very little effort, I had managed to hurt her feminist instincts.

Now what?


What’s in a name, one may ask.

Perhaps not much. What’s called a rose would certainly smell as sweet as it does if it were called a cauliflower; maybe not taste as good as one.

However if you happened to seek my opinion on this very topic roughly thirteen years ago during that eventful Science lecture, I would have said there are 206 bones in our body and each is named differently not just for the heck of it. There has to be some logic behind what you may want to call something or say, someone.

As I sat flummoxed on my part of the most sought-after bench in four divisions wondering what part of ‘Marion Jones’ sounded feminine, my sinking heart earnestly wished one American family had applied the same logic before deciding upon a name of their quickest running daughter.

How compelling my naming theory might have been, something told me that it just wasn’t enough to convince S14 out of her grumpiness. Learning from the recent chain of events, she might even consider walking to our teacher’s desk and borrowing the human skull from her collection, taking good aim and flinging it in my direction like one might fling a grenade at an enemy bunker; if I chose to bring up the topic with her.

Hence with rational thinking ruled out, I had to figure out something else, something better... something Plan B.

“Please S14 please, please try to understand me,” I pleaded, begging for her forgiveness, “I didn’t want to make fun of anyone, trust me.”

“Anyone? Did you say anyone?” S14 snared, taking the matter a bit too personally if you ask me. “For your kind information mister, my Marion’s not anyone. She’s the best sprinter in the world and can outrun your Carl Lewis with a whole minute to spare.”

Her Marion? My Carl Lewis? What does this girl play with? Athlete action figures?

Okay, Plan B seemed to have landed a turkey, but the way I saw it, it wasn’t a complete failure either.

To the untrained eyes snooping at us from the neighboring benches, clearly finding our hushed argument far more engrossing than knowing about tarsals and metatarsals, it might have looked like I had managed to infuriate her more than I possibly could. However, the fact was that it actually gave the female activist within her some fodder to chew on.

It had helped her to unleash her wrath on the whole male sporting fraternity including her ex-boyfriend who by now seemed like a total MCP to me. The feeling of kinship towards her kind and the random piece of what seemed to be (not that I really cared about) a wishful piece of sporting trivia were the clues.

The bait was taken and now I only had to suck up a little more, just a little more and I had my fish reeling back to her bossy, self-adoring, perfectionist self. Oh, how much I missed her that way.

“I think you’ve just opened my eyes,” I said with glistening sincerity. “How wrong could I have been? I totally take my words back and promise not to-”

“How about,” S14 interjected, looking at me for the first time in seven minutes, “you and me, after school, sports ground?”

Normally, such an offer would have sounded as appealing as watching our Hindi teacher being mauled by a ferocious pack of wolves, but keeping the situation in mind, I was forced to give it a second thought.

“What? I mean why?”

“Why else do you think mister?”

Why else did I think? To summon her army of admirers and lynch me in public? Or perhaps, take the task solely upon her self? How was I supposed to know?

“Okay, if you say so,” I agreed, like I had an option.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lecture and school for that day.

“See you at the ground in five minutes,” S14 said and rushed from her seat, leaving me with my naming theory, an imaginary fishing rod and the unaccomplished half of Plan B.


For those who are interested to know, my school consisted of three concrete structures, namely, the main building, the playschool and the church. An impressive looking ground made up for the space between these edifices. That wasn’t the Sports Ground.

The Sports Ground was a neglected piece of school property located right behind the main building. With rodents inhabiting almost every inch of its hundred and fifty feet area, neatly marking their territories with holes big enough to fit an adult Pomeranian with ease, the place looked more like an abandoned minefield than a playground.

Why would a girl like S14 call a guy like me to a place like that? The possibilities were endless.

By the time I reached the venue, she was already there, performing what looked like stretching exercises akin to the ones performed by Taekwondo practitioners before a major bout.

So she did want to kick my butt in private, I thought, swallowing hard.

Like a sacrificial lamb walking towards the pedestal with a clear idea of what was about to follow next, I gulped in a large volume of air and quietly walked towards her, preparing for the worst.

“So you are finally here,” S14 said as she saw me coming; her legs spread at wide angles and her right hand miraculously clutching on to the frail end of her left toe.

I nodded timidly.

“Don’t you want to warm a bit before we begin?” S14 enquired, performing her acrobatic stunts with shocking ease and flexibility.

“Warm up? I don’t know-”

“Oh I see, so you don’t think you need to warm up, huh?” S14 interrupted, breaking from her flexing routine for the first time. “Suits you mister, but even the pros tell us to never miss a warm up before an event.”

An event? Butt-kicking was perhaps a celebrated sport in Canada, I thought.

“So what do you prefer? A 100 meter sprint or a 200 meter dash?” S14 asked, tying her hair into a cute little bunch. “I would suggest we mark that pole right there and then cover the same distance back, what say?”

Okay, I do get the part where am guilty and I deserve a good punishment, but to the pole and back? What was she planning to do? Kick my butt while making me run for my life?

“Now drop the bag and take your position," S14 ordered, morphing into a half-kneeling, half-hunching like stance, "remember, like professionals, on the count of three, okay?”

So, this is what it was, I thought, smiling to my self.

While I feared being kicked around the circumference, all she wanted to do was stage a race and win it. Considering the fact that I wouldn’t anything against her even if I were given a year’s preparation time, I didn’t even need to fake this one. I just had to keep it going while she crossed the finish line and there it was, all done. This was so much easier than I expected!

“On your marks, get set…” S14 called out, rising up a bit from her position.

Go, go, go, I cheered mentally, while trying to keep up with her abrupt change of body movements.

“Go!”

And there it was... Like the champion athlete that she was, S14 took off like a F16 released from a giant slingshot, leaving me behind in a massive cloud of dust.

By the time the dust settled down, I had barely moved a few feet from the starting line, but she had reached the far end of the ground. Within no time, S14 swung around the pole and was on course to meet me on her way back, before she would cross the finish line.

Just a few more seconds and we are through with this my-athlete, your-athlete crap for good, I thought and wheezed; trying to talk myself through the ordeal as my body started showing signs of protest.

As I could notice, S14 was approaching me with great pace and vigor, determined to cloud me in another round of dust, when suddenly... she collapsed.

(To be continued in the next post...)