“Ya gotta be ready for the fastball.”

- Ted Williams

I was sitting at the diner, enjoying my French toast, when a gentleman came up to me and asked why it is that I don't write much about sports.

It was a valid question and believe me, there is a perfectly good reason for this. It's not that I don't enjoy being active, quite the opposite. From jogging, kayaking and cycling to the occasional round of Frisbee golf, I enjoy being outside and getting physical.

It's only when it comes to “organized” recreation I don't really perform at the top of my game, so to speak.

To really get an understanding as to why it is that I'm not a big team player we will have to take a journey together back in time.

The year? 1980. The grade? Third. The event? Kickball.

There I was standing among the group of boys. I was 4 feet 3 inches tall. A powerhouse backed by 45 pounds of pure intimidation. Scary, I know.

It wasn't that I was just scrawny but my muscles were so tone deaf that if I kicked with all my might the other team still thought I was bunting. The sun was shining as I stood there anxiously waiting as the boys were “picked.”

This is where my tale truly begins. Steve or Todd would usually go first. Then it was a toss-up between David and Chris.

The numbers dwindled down quickly and then it would be the same ending as always. There was the kid that always got picked last, and then there was me. You might think that not being the kid that gets picked last is a good thing but let me set the record straight. It's worse.

The problem is that I wasn't even good enough to be last. No, I was the deciding factor of what a loser was and what a loser could be. You see, the captain of whatever team I would ultimately be recruited for, would always say “I guess we'll take Brad.”

In that brief pause of time I knew what was going through his mind; who sucks worse. So as soon as my name was called, like an excited puppy, I'd go running to join my team. I would then assume my position: outfield.

For a moment I'd feel good to be playing but then, like a call to arms, the shouts would go up, “Move back!”

Steve was stepping up to the plate.

Like the story of David and Goliath, only with a more darker ending, I'd be standing there, all sweat and bones, as I waited for that red rocket to come flying out of the clouds.

The only part worse than the impact was when it was my turn to kick and I would not only miss the ball but, actually find a way to trip myself in the process.

So you'd think after all this time I'd be able to just do a column about sports but; what can I say?

Some wounds you just can't “walk off.”

Auburn native Bradley Molloy's column appears here,

each Sunday, in The Citizen.

He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com