Well, there's nothing like organized sports to make me feel like a big fat loser.

It's become pretty clear to me that I will not, contrary to my previous understanding, be able to use my stunning good looks to manipulate the world into doing my bidding, such as getting naked and dancing for my amusement. However, since I require more attention than a disgruntled orangutan with a machete, I'm going to have to find an alternate means of making my mark on the world. I had just narrowed it down to Anything That Doesn't Require Me To Run, and was zeroing in on my destiny (perhaps being the Dalai Lama? I don't think there's much running in that) when Mark McGwire had to go and remind people that organized sports are, in fact, the greatest thing ever, even though they require a good deal of movement.

My fear of organized sports started with a bad tee-ball experience in pre-school (in which Michael Carlotta repeatedly hit me with his whiffle bat) and blossomed heartily under the leadership of Mr. Rudy Kenik, the Crazed Gym Teacher from Beyond the Moon, who forced me to play kickball every day from the fifth through the ninth grades. I never once made it to first base; if I managed to kick the ball at all, Mike Marcin inevitably caught it and pegged me in the back so hard that I would fall over, arms flailing wildly, prompting a gleeful peal of laughter from my more coordinated peers. Never did I wish so hard for Carrie-like psycho-kinetic powers.

I think the main problem I had with organized sports was that I was invariably on the losing team. The only time I was ever a part of a truly successful team was that fateful day in 1986 when my cousins Anthony and Jennifer and I locked our cousin John in the bathroom for four hours while we played with his Domino Rally set, all the while chanting "Johnnnnifer... Johnnnnifer..." in a chilling sing-song that I'm certain haunts his sleep to this very day. Every other team who's ever had the misfortune of having me on board has lost miserably, I assume because of the gypsy curse I carry that causes me to run like a drunk in slow motion.

I foolishly believed I had escaped the world of teams and competition, which gives me hives, when I came to college. I specifically avoided the team gyms in favor of recreational crafts. Things were really looking up for me. Perhaps sports weren't that important to success. Maybe I'd be able to live a normal life after all, all the while hiding my dirty little unathletic secret. But oh, no. Mark McGwire saw to that. Now sports are where it's at again, and I'm in big trouble.

Of course, there's really nothing wrong with team sports. (I feel I must make this disclaimer, as I value my life.) Sixty-two home runs are nothing to sneeze at. But now he's claimed the cover of every magazine, the front page of every paper, and I'm going to have to redouble my efforts to make myself known. Or else, I'll just have to undergo massive plastic surgery and pursue my original plan as scheduled.