P.E. for Dummies (and the teacher who taught me anyway)

Most people are not that connected to their elementary school once they get to be in the 20's. I am an exception to that rule. Perhaps this is because my youngest brother still attends that school or maybe it is the fact that I can't get over the plaid uniform skirts. Yes, I went to Catholic school and I am proud of that. I may not be an ultra religious person at this current moment in my life, but I have to admit that the 9 years I spent at St. Agnes School were mostly happy ones. I was not popular by grade school standards, but I did have friends and was happy to participate in Girl Scouts, school musicals, junior high choir, 4 Square at recess, etc. I can tell you one thing I was not so happy to participate in, at least most of the time - P.E. For most of that 9 years I had a great dislike for the moment we would shed our jumpers or skirts, revealing whichever matching shorts we wore underneath for P.E., then line up and walk through the hallways towards the gym. I was a way bigger fan of the day during the week we headed that direction and, once past the office, turned left into the Music Room instead of right into the gym.

This aside, I now find myself reflecting on P.E. class, as I recently found out that St. Agnes' beloved, long-time P.E. teacher, Joanie Baker, is retiring at the end of the current school year. Now, you may wonder why a gal who hated P.E. class as a kid would be at all sad to hear of this certain teacher's retirement, so let me explain. Mrs. Baker is a great lady and always seemed to understand which kids were not the most athletically inclined and never made us feel like we were any less important or valuable. When we were younger we would play this version of tag called Big Mac Attack (yes, as in McDonald's). Students were split into teams, very diplomatically by a count-off system, and then each team was given a name of a McDonald's food item. One team was picked as "it" and spread themselves out in the middle of the gym. All other kids lined up on one side of the room, waiting to see which team name the "its" would call. Once they called your team name/food, you would run to the line on the other side of the gym, avoiding getting tagged by the "its." If you did, were out. Then, your team had less people when it was your turn to be "it." Not a bad game overall, but guess who was always tagged first. It's true, and as much as I would like to say the "its" were gunning for me, the truth is, I was just slow. After 20 years, I think I can admit that and not feel bad.

As we got older, it became even more obvious which kids were the athletes and which were not. I was not, not a big surprise. My asthma did not help that any and I often found myself wheezing after P.E. was over and wanting nothing more than a drink of water and to sit at my desk and read something or quietly put my head down. Back to Mrs. Baker - she never seemed to judge us and never questioned those of us who always seemed to have a headache, tummy ache, felt sick, or, when we got to that age, had cramps. These were all perfectly acceptable reasons to ask to sit on the stage and watch instead of participate in that day's hardcore game of Bombardo (better known to most as Dodgeball) or sit in the grass chatting with friends instead of enthusiastically joining in Kickball. I am not saying I never participated in P.E., as there were some special weeks that Mrs. Baker planned that got me excited every year. Rollerskating was by far my favorite week of the year! She would get roller skates brought in and we would spend our half hour skating in circles, forwards, backwards, racing each other, etc. It was amazing! Perhaps I enjoyed it so much because I was good at it or perhaps because it was an activity that didn't involve running or getting clobbered with a ball. We also had weeks each year when we would get out these little yellow square scooters and do relays on them, passing batons, going backwards, pushing each other, etc. Much more fun than just running, right? I know it had nothing at all to do with me, but I always told Mrs. Baker how much I loved these activities ans then the next time they were scheduled, I felt like it was just for me, because she knew I like them and would happily participate. Ah, childhood delusion at its best! Perhaps Mrs. Baker was a master of illusion, or rather disillusion in my case. When we would play basketball in P.E., it was pretty obvious that I was no good, but when it came time to "try out" for the team in 5th Grade, she encouraged me, saying that it would be fun, I would get to do it with my friends, and that I was not all that bad, gently reminding me of the one basket I made the week before and how good it was. Ah, delusions once again. Luckily for me, yes, I said luckily, I broke my arm half way through the season and had to sit on the bench, watching my classmates get better and better. I don't think I really would have gotten much better and Mrs. Baker probably knew that, but encouraged me anyway. The broken arm, which was not a basketball-related injury, simply served as my way to still be part of the team, feel the spirit, but not cost them any games. It ended my non-existent bball career before it had even started. Thank god!

Even though I was never a fan of P.E. class, I was a fan of the teacher, a woman who made us all feel like stars, even if we were the falling kind. On the walls of the main hallway at St. Agnes hang pictures of all the graduating classes. I remember when I was a little kid, walking down that hallway so many times each week (going to P.E. was two of those times) and looking up at those pictures, the students who had been here before me. I was so impressed by them, the "big kids." As I got older I would still look at them, looking for people I knew from church or the older siblings of my friends. I am proud to be hanging on that wall, St. Agnes School, Class of 1996. I hope my brother Austin looks at it occasionally as he walks down that hallway, perhaps smiling, knowing that he is headed to P.E. class, where he surely would kick my ass in Bombardo. . . .