I started reading at age three and a half. My mom was so proud of it she told me to take my book to pre-K and read it to the class. I did, and my teachers were impressed. Reading was something I excelled in. I topped my class in test scores, always. The command of language was just too easy. My first grade teacher used to do spelling tests to expand our vocabulary and increase our skills. She’d grab six or so kids and seat them at the table, then go around asking them how to spell words. The ones they got wrong, they’d write down. Ten words a week. Once your ten were filled, you could go back to individual work. I was Ms. Yanow’s headache. She searched her brain for words a first grader should know, that I couldn’t spell. The list was sparse, and she turned it up a notch. I actually remember being called up on my own a few times, so she could use really difficult words to properly challenge me. It became a game, an academic challenge.

In third grade, I had serious social issues. I coasted through 200 pages a day, at least, reading in class, between breaks, and before and after school. But then I wrote. I hated writing because I was left-handed. My hand smudges everything I write as I move from left to right across the page. However, poetry was a legitimate art form. It intrigued me that I could say just as much with less. Acrostic, haiku, and rhyming poems. I could type well too. The teachers saw my writing, and they were impressed by the way I understood and re-applied language. I felt accomplished. One of them always called me “Mr. Writer” whenever I saw her. I didn’t really have close friends though. I had three or four friends, none of which I really connected with. Girls avoided me, taking a wide berth around me in the halls and laughing at me at recess, running away. I drowned it out in novels and my own imagination.

Elementary school stayed the same, until fifth grade. I’d just received some low grades on tests, and mom noticed I didn’t care. I had my books. I just read. Then mom did what I never thought she’d do. She banned me. No more recreational reading at home. I complained at school, but none of my friends would actually get it. They thought I was lucky, cause their parents made them read before bed. I remember the first time I went outside. I grabbed a ball, and kind of threw it around to my brother. I had no idea what to do. I’d never really gone outside of my own accord. I didn’t even play any sports. Overall, it was really weird. I still did it again. I had nothing else to do. I wasn’t allowed video games on weekdays, and I had so much time, because homework took me a total of twenty minutes. I most remember a baseball, and a mini football. I was really bad at both. I was really slow too.

Finally, I found something I was good at. I joined badminton club in sixth grade, and balanced a fair amount of reading with it. I met Evan, and we played. We played well. Two days a week after school We’d head to the gym and a whole bunch of people would be there just playing. I was 5 feet tall at the time, and not too bad of a player considering my inefficiencies. I moved over the court. It was small, and I was slow, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t quick with a racket in my hand. Evan and I were always tying, or he was winning by a fraction, even though he was skinny and more mobile. I learned to place the ball, and I got better at sports.

Seventh grade was just trash. I played softball for my school, but I really didn’t do anything. In eighth grade, after thanksgiving, I wasn’t feeling too good about how I looked. So I decided to run. I ran. It was about a mile route, but mostly steep uphill. I timed it at 11 minutes and 40 seconds. I had to stop twice. Then I ran it again, stopping once, and became continuous. I always timed it. As soon as I got back home I’d do push ups and sit ups. Between late December and April, I went from 126 pounds to 111 pounds. One of the sweetest victories of my accomplishment was athleticism. I could run better, and for longer. In a 100-yard dash, I consistently bested a classmate of mine who’d been playing basketball for years. He bragged a lot, and beating him put him back in his place, but also gave me a nice smile.

I don’t know why I decided to play football. I’ve been asked tons of times, and I’m still not sure. I was drawn to the game. I spent my entire freshman season getting beat the hell up. I was smashed apart in so many ways, that season still gets me mad. It made me work hard. Within the course of a single year, I lifted weights. I began benching 65 pounds as a maximum. By the end of the year, I added 1, to the front. A full 165 pounds. I ran track too. I was really bad, and slow. My legs were too weak to support my heavy upper body and long torso, but I was told my running form was really good. I developed the basics properly, but I was missing something. I’m still missing it. I became the best mentally growing up. I had a change of heart, and strove after sports. I’m working on it, but It’s still a process. I lost my natural edge, but I’m building mine. I don’t read anymore, and I’ve become the polar opposite of what I used to be. I’m now an average student, but I play football. I’m not that good, I won’t lie. That doesn’t mean I don’t put in my hours, and work hard, learning as much as I can.