We didn't learn any sort of variety of sports in Mr. Kenik's eighth period seventh grade gym class; instead, we concentrated, day in, day out, on perfecting our skills for the true great American pastime-- kickball. Every single day, without one deviation, we played this ludicrous game, and every day I kicked fifth in the rotation. And every day, just before my foot made contact with that deceptively friendly looking red rubber ball, Mr. Kenik would yell to me, "kick the ball, dammit!" and I would miss the ball completely. I don't think I ever once kicked that damn ball.

 In the outfield I always played second base, because no one ever, ever kicked it there. On the rare occasion when someone, usually Mike Marcin, that bastard, managed to punt it in my direction, I was careful to position my face directly in its path to insure injury, and, therefore, removal from the game. I used to relish the sound and feel of the ball smacking off my face, knowing it meant a brief but sorely needed reprieve from second base and "kick the ball, dammit!"

 Once in a great while, when Mr. Kenik was feeling especially gregarious, I got to be the Scorekeeper, a job highly coveted by the coven of gawky, unathletic preteen girls of which I was the queen. The job consisted mainly of sitting on the top bleacher and shouting the score at random intervals throughout the game, but even this position had its dangers; Mike Marcin, for instance, was not adverse to hitting a girl he believed to be falsifying scores in favor of his opponent (which I often did.)

 Not surprisingly, I have not played one game of kickball since graduating from Mr. Kenik's class. However, I eagerly await the day when it becomes the nationally televised sport he always believed it would be, so I can keep my eye out for a second baseman who steps directly into the path of an approaching shot, most likely kicked by Mike Marcin, and know that I am not alone in my hatred of the game.