. . . there was a slightly uncoordinated young girl who was always picked last for the P.E. teams at school. She couldn't quite get the bat to hit the ball in softball, her tennis racket made a lovely swoosh through the air full seconds before the ball actually got there, and she continually lost her sense of direction when her head was down in field hockey.
Over the years she became a cheerleader, which gave the fuzzy impression that she was really interested in athletics, although she had trouble remembering if the basketball team was seeking goals or baskets.
And, of course, after middle school, high school, and college physical education classes had mercifully passed out of her life, there really wasn't much reason to worry about hand/eye/ball coordination or how to hold a racket.
And then, as life would have it, a small miracle occurred.
To this athletically-challenged young woman were born two children who grew to be tall, who lived and breathed the intoxicating competition of sports, and who could coordinate not only hand, eye, and ball, but knees, ankles, spines, baskets, heads, nets, and feet.
Indeed, this woman would honestly believe these children could not possibly be her own, except for the female's propensity to sharp, sarcastic answers and the male's desire to stay up until 3:00 a.m. and sleep until noon. Genetics have, therefore, been confirmed.
So, without further ado I will show you visual proof that all things are possible, that genetics do not necessarily determine abilities, and that if you are eight years old and nervously digging your toe into the mud while teams are being chosen on the playground, life has not already passed you by.
Your athletic pride may just be salvaged by your children.
I do remain dumbfounded!