Not Every Dyke is a Sporty Dyke

I was a nerdy kid and spent almost all of my time reading. When I wasn't reading, I liked to play school and would assign myself research papers that required me to use the encylopedia. I'm talking hardcore nerd here. I don't think I was the kind of kid my mother expected to have. She was an outdoorsy gal whose idea of a good time was clearing brush and moving large rocks. She would come into my bedroom, remove whatever book I was reading from my hands and tell me to get my ass outside.  Once, she signed me up for t-ball and volunteered to coach the team. I loved the uniform and the smell of the glove but I didn't actually enjoy the game. I couldn't even hit the ball off the tee and, the one time that I did, I tripped and fell face down in the dirt on my way to first base. My mother just shook her head, picked me up by the back of the shirt and benched me. She did it in anger but I actually saw it as an act of kindness. I didn't have to play and I still got to have a grape soda after the game. In junior high, I decided that I wanted to join the volleyball team. I kinda liked volleyball and could actually hit the ball over the net which seemed rather miraculous given my history but here's the rub...the knee pads. The knee pads were so stinky from all the sweat that I couldn't stand to wear them. We'd wash them and wash them and still they smelled like sweat and it was unbearable. So, when I got hit in the face with the ball right after having my braces tightened, I decided that it was a sign from the Gods of Athleticism that I should bow out. It wasn't until college that I found my sport - rugby. Was I good at rugby? No...but the whole team kinda sucked so I was no worse than anyone else. Our team shined in the most important competitive aspect of rugby - the Drinking of the Beer. I could chug beer with the best of them and held my liquor like a champ. Yes, I found my true calling was drinking people under the table though I don't compete professionally anymore. I can't afford the hangovers.   

One sport that I have never tried is golf. Now, I know there are a lot of Gay Ladies who Golf. You can pick 'em out from a mile away. They have nice tans, they've got those sporty visors and those spiky shoes with tassles. Oh, and they wear peach colored polo shirts and have those little pom pom balls on their socks! Alright...they probably don't always wear peach colored polo shirts but, in my mind's eye, they do. Anyway, I am not a golfer - I don't have a tan (I'm so pale I look like I have been living under a rock), I have no visor, no tassles and no pom pom socks. But, this weekend, we went to an Arctic Golf Tournament where we stood around on a frozen lake all day and hit tennis balls with golf clubs. Much to my surprise, I sucked. I'm kidding...I wasn't surprised at all. If you think I am exaggerating, I submit the following evidence:

There is nothing natural about my stance in this picture. At least I appear to be looking at the tennis ball although it's hard to tell with the sunglasses. You may be shocked to hear that I missed the ball entirely on quite a few holes and fell down twice while swinging. One of my teammates kept asking if my camera had a video option and I am SO glad that it doesn't. What I lacked in skill, I made up for in spirit...actually...I mean in spirits. My breath still smells minty fresh from the Schnaaps.

I've always mocked ice fishing but I should have wandered over and joined these folks instead:

I think I could manage to sit in a little house and drink beer while staring at a hole in the ice. Maybe.

I also wanted to update you all on the Lezzy Awards. It turns out that voting actually goes through tomorrow. So, you can still nominate blogs over there and I'm still hoping you might nominate mine. Pass the link around to your friends. If you do, I'll take you golfing sometime...it will do wonders for your self-esteem.