You’ve heard me talk before about Bad First Date Ideas and, specifically why one of those was a Wine Fest. However, there have been so many bad first dates involving sports that I thought they deserved their own separate story. It’s especially appropriate for the summer which is where these dates keep occurring.
I am not much good at sports. No, seriously, I suck. I played on a softball league once when I was married and I am virtually certain it is one of the reasons The Ex and I got a divorce (the other teams nicknamed me “The Strike-Out Queen” which, though it wasn’t very athletic, was at least regal). I took tennis in college. My father came to one of my tennis classes, and while I flitted “queenlike” across the court shouting “Love-This!” and “Love-That!” he looked like he was wondering where his money for a private university education was going. The instructor recommended I not take the intermediate class—please.
Don’t even get me started on pool… I like more esoteric athletic events like interpretive dance, aerobics, and cheerleading. But sports with balls are not my thing. **Insert crude, sexual innuendo here.**
However, no matter how many times you tell men this, bless their testosterone-laden hearts, they don’t listen. They tell you they don’t care if you aren’t any good and that it doesn’t matter to them. They lie.
Take batting cages. Raul wanted me to go to the batting cages. The balls are coming at me at about 500 million miles an hour. I am supposed to swing the bat, which seems like an unwise idea to me. He says that the balls are going slow, but they don’t seem slow; they seem fast…and hard. **Don't even get me started.** If I just move out of the way, close my eyes, and wait, surely they will stop coming at me eventually. Except he keeps screaming at me to “swing.” They do stop eventually, but he was frustrated and disbelieving of my lack of athletic ability.
Then there is Putt Putt. Actually, I like miniature golf. I take my daughter, Leah, and my nephews often. The problem is, my idea of Putt Putt and a man’s idea of Putt Putt are not at all the same thing. I think Putt Putt should be FUN. I know, silly me. So Alex took me to play Putt Putt. I should have known better, and in fact I did know better. But I am not the most assertive person—working on it—so there I was.
By definition, Putt Putt is kind of a silly game. Take giant giraffes, little bitty windmills, an ogre with a mouth that opens and closes, life-size mushrooms, and a hole in one resembling a pin the tail on the donkey, and it is not exactly the envy of Tiger Woods (who, incidentally recently presented the "Kevin Awards for Worst Online Dates"). So I have a hard time taking it seriously. I tend to walk around making comments like, “Fore!” and “That was a birdie for sure,” “Hmmm…which club should I use?” “What’s your handicap?” “Play it where it lies,” and “I don’t like the way my ball is lying on this shot—sandtrap.”
Plus, I completely advocate do-overs. Do-overs are important in miniature golf, and maybe in life. I think they should also be allowed in the Olympics but that’s just me. So if the people with whom I am playing deserve another shot, I’ll go ahead and move the ball back for them. Sometimes, I’ll even help them out a little bit and move it closer to the hole. Occasionally, I help out people I don’t even know.
I’ve found that, while this works out fine with young children, this does not go over well with dates. Men in general seem to WANT to play the game r i g h t. As if playing Putt Putt had a right and a wrong. Alex ended the date by storming off and telling me I was a bad sport. I did finish my game first with a bunch of kids I knew from school. They let me help them out, and we had a grand ole’ time, do-overs and all.
But then, what do I know? I’m a bad sport.
copyright © 2010 Tiia Jones