LifeTime Fitness

I’m constantly impressed with my friends that possess athletic abilities superior to mine (which is basically stating that I’m impressed with all of my friends). While I have long written off my hopes of becoming a world-class athlete or Olympian, I still dabble in the art of kinesiology. Living in Ghana, I’ve been able to exercise at Pippa’s Health Centre to maintain my athletic pretense. And in this setting, I have been provided with ample time upon the treadmill to reflect upon my personal athletic timeline.

I am pretty sure that it began (and ended) in elementary school, fourth-grade. I was just entering the first season of kid-pitch baseball, where strikes are as abundant as Siberian tigers. The team’s strategy was to walk our way to victory simply by relying on the inaccuracy of the opponent’s pitcher. See, my coach was all about skill-development. Before we went to the plate, we had to first agree not to swing the bat. Even if you spotted a strike, it was best not to swing because (a) the umpire might still call it a ball, and (b) even if it was a strike, odds are the next pitch would be a ball.

It wasn’t much better for me when it came to fielding. Let’s not kid, being positioned in the outfield was never because you were the next Kirby Puckett. The outfield formula in fourth-grade was part unfortunate fielding skills, part poor depth perception skills, and part lack of speed, which, in total, had quite the charming effect on the opponent. Of course, outfield was my specialty. I preferred right-field where I could put some distance between myself and the vitriol of my coach. Needless to say, my team failed to book a win all season, so instead of putting myself through another year of torture, I cut my losses (which were many) and threw in the glove.

Well, hindsight is 20-20 right? My Pippa’s treadmill overlooks a soccer pitch, and I am often entertained by pee-wee soccer practice. Just the other day, I was watching a scrimmage where the goalie grabbed possession and decided to practice his punt. The only problem was that there was a shrimp from the opposing team standing two feet in front of him. It all happened so quickly, but the trajectory of the soccer ball was interrupted by the young face, off of which it quickly ricocheted, toppling the runt and throwing the Lilliputians scurrying in a new direction. It was at this moment that I had an epiphany. I realized that my former coach was really just looking out for my own safety. Walking to first base pretty much eliminated the possibility of a collision with the first-base man. And as an outfielder, I was far less likely to be injured by a line drive.

Well, regardless, I now stick to the treadmill. One might suspect the treadmill to be a relatively safe venture; definitely safer than kid-pitch baseball and pee-wee soccer. Let’s just say that when you’re running at 8.5 miles per hour and the power goes out at the gym, kid-pitch doesn’t sound so terrifying after all.