As is well known, Sporting Heroes have lorded it over Dramatic Geeks for all time. Movies consistently show the Jock in a position of power, and the Geek only rarely succeeds. Sports movies do better than Movies about acting. When the most popular medium to express your form does it best work emulating another thing, that other thing is better.
And lo, the lesson was learned. My geeky, acting, role playing behind was to forever kowtow to the big bully that is outdoor pursuits. I learned my place in the pecking order of most life choices. I clung to the library as a child, playing my D&D , my Warhammer and my Blood Bowl. When I lived in Korea, Board game cafes such as Noretah (owned by the very excellent Hailey) let me play Catan, or even better, a whole host of role playing games. My thanks on this occasion to Anthony, Seth, and Jeremy.
But in both landscapes, sports would always make an appearance. My body would think about sunshine and running and how lovely it all sounded. I would sign up for tryouts and I would make it. I'd be part of a team and there would be much butt slapping. Unfortunately, I would start playing and , well, this happened...
Rugby
Rugby was a big deal at Watford Grammar school for Boys. And, no, it wasn't *that* posh. We were just better than you. And, every year there would be an Inter Form tournament of rugby. So, each class of thirty boys would make a team of seventeen players, allowing for two subs. I would have to be worse than just over half the class to avoid playing. This would mean being worse than people with asthma, or people who could only look one way. So, I would find myself in the Full Back position. This is the last defensive man on the field. He is the rugby equivalent of an American Football Safety. I have no idea why my class gave me the position. All I know was that I ended up being savagely run over by Edward Lewsey. Ed's older brother, Josh, would go on to represent England. Ed was lined up to be a better player. And he HATED me. So, once he had run around all the rest of my team, he would make a bee line for me en route to scoring a try. Here's the thing, As he charged me down, my myopic vision presenting me with a blurry angry tosser, I suddenly thought of my Dwarf army. I became as slow as them. And as he ran me over, and I fell, I held on. I held on as I thought a dwarf would hold on. And Ed went down. Every. Single. Time. My performance was so good I got a tryout with the Second Fifteen. Of course I failed that almost immediately, but for a brief glorious moment, my dwarf army spirit stood me in good stead.
Paintball
Let me tell you about my friend Jon. Jon is one of those nut bags you meet in a pub one night and he seems quiet enough, relaxed enough, that you allow into your life. Then you find out he is an ex circus aerialist who loves making cosplay swords and building armour. I know, it just gets better and better. He is also the premier go to guy with regard to paint balling. Eventually, I found myself attending one of his day trips. Once we had put on all the gear, I became quite claustrophobic. I couldn't move freely and the visor I had to wear was covered in scratches, impairing my vision. I then thought about real soldiers and the gear they have to carry. Rather than continue the thought trail of 'Just how weak am I?' I focused on role playing as a n00b soldier. This was a terrible idea. As we set up for the first game (Ha!GAME!WAR AIN'T NO GAME!) my team was in a dusty corridor. I hyperventilated, freaking out. When I thought I saw another soldier I dove into the next room, a bee-yoo-tee-full Hollywood dive that would have impressed Michael Bay. Unfortunately I then landed and it felt like I had crushed my ribs. I lay there gasping, until someone shot me in the back. The next game my team held someone hostage. I lay down on the ground and waited to ambush someone. Of course this meant someone crept up behind me and strafed me with about twenty paintballs. I hit the ground with my head and played dead. Only, this time, I really role played it. I imagine my life blood draining from me. I lay there, an out of focus black stone the last thing I was going to see. My breath shortened, the mud flecks touching my quaking lips. I died that day, alone and scared. My friends had to come and get me when the game finished. I had to pretend I had hit my head on a stone and temporarily concussed myself.
Softball
Man, I was NOT good at Softball. However, I never missed the ball when I hit and I ran through the bases pretty well. I never hit a homer, but I also never hit a pop up. My problem was fielding. What do you call that place deeeeep behind First Base? I called it home on Sunday afternoons. And the thing is, under the sun, all alone with nothing to do, aided by an inevitable Soju hangover, my mind wandered. Which is superb if I am chilling under the stars, or alone at home, or pretty much anywhere that is NOT raining softballs. So, in my mind wandering, I became separate from my corporeal form. I floated a few meters away, judging my skinny frame and joke of facial hair. (Don't worry folks, both filled out admirably.) I floated up and away. High above the field , I could see all. I was able to judge all I decided this would make me an umpire. I observed a powerful <THWACK!> and a ball rose up into the air, It hung for a moment next to my form. As it fell, I thought I should run to that, just to make sure it was a foul ball. I managed to run right next to the ball as it fell to the ground. I did not think for even a second about catching it. I was a goddamn Umpire, and umpires don't catch balls. As it landed , I judged it to be a foul ball, shouting 'safe' and performing a 'six" cricket symbol. Everyone laughed at the Englishman trying to do American Sports. I laughed along with them, hiding the shame that was to Sports badly in front of other Sportoes. My friends, Ole E and Big Mike ( My friends have the coolest names) then took me aside one night and taught me how to catch pop ups. It was one of the most fun nights I had that first year and they probably don't even remember it.
Ultimate Frisbee
Yes, it *is* a sport. Right, got that out of the way. The ROK-U league is one of the best times I ever had, and I learned quickly this was a game at which you could suck and no one cared. My first season I played with my good friend Tony ( <---Where's your cool name, Tony?) and I realized, I couldn't throw well, I couldn't catch well, I couldn't run fast, and I couldn't run for. Long time. I suuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked at frisbee. I still went, but by the second season, my role had been clearly defined. I was very much a last resort for a substitute, but a bloody good heckler and drinker. So I role played. I thought about which person I would hate, if I were a lifetime fan of the team I was supporting. I would think about what they had done to earn my undying animosity. In my head, I would create sports news headlines, saying this player has been accused of acting like a pompous ass, throwing money around and thinking they were the bee's knees. I shit you not, both 'pompous ass' and 'bee's knees' entered my mind as part of a process to get enraged. We call that English Gentlemanning Level 80. Anyway, I would then deliver a monologue of negative vibes and bad karma upon some hapless fooled. Usually it was Daejeon Pandemic who were so good, or Paul Groba, because shit happens, Groba. Shit happens. Thing is, off the field, I loved these people. They would hang out and we would drink. It was Korea. Of course we drank. I once asked Groba if it bothered him when I would heckle him. He'd chuckle and say it was a part of the game. And I, the real me, would desperately hope that to be true. But the Character I had created in my head wanted to see a fucking tear in his eye.
Mixed Martial Arts
So, if you have ever lived in Daegu in the last decade and you were a working emigrant, sorry, ex-pat, you probably know about Fight Club. That's because Nick Heroux's Fight Club is not a secret club designed to make white collar workers alive by beating the snot out of Meatloaf. It is a mixed martial arts society that meets to train, spar and develop fighting, self defense, confidence, health yadda yadda yadda. Honestly, I hated going to Fight Club. It was full of guys who were always going to be healthier, and apparently happier. I cannot think of one long term member who seemed withdrawn. Maybe Fish ( <---again, with the cool names) , but I think that was Probably because he was a former WetWork CIA agent, and how do you not feel sad about those memories? But that was not the real problem. I could not disengage from the act of sparring. I was always going to have to stay mind alert, body alert, mind aware, body aware. Do you guys have any idea how hard that is for someone like me? I have enough trouble focusing on writing a book. Now, instead of an iPad and keyboard in front of me, I got some bald Canadian punching me in the nose. And he is grinning about it. I lost focus at Fight Club a total of five times. The first time, Jamari (cool name) threw me up in the air and then jumped up to land his linebacker body all over me. THe second time, I got punched in the nose. The third , I rolled my ankle so badly I couldn't walk right for a week. That's right, I was one of Bad Santa's Mall Whores. The fourth, my knee went. The fifth, my ACL tore and my Meniscus shredded. My wife made me promise not to go to Fight Club again. Say what you will about those near naked sweaty dudes rolling around on the floor together in a cage, they are paying attention.
So, look, in a world suddenly filled with Pokemon Go, and geeks suddenly feeling okay about moving abut outside again, I say great. Just do it properly, role play that son of a bitch. Just, you know, focus. Don't walk into the the middle of the main road. Even if your character has decided this is a great way to further their back story. I'll understand, but you'll still be dead.
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