Of all of the plagues faced by tall people (shoe and pants shopping aside), one of the most irritating is a question that is hurled at us everyday. It’s a question that everyone wonders, but only some dare to ask.
DO YOU PLAY BASKETBALL?
Almost every day, I’m slammed with this question. If you think I’m exaggerating, ask anyone who goes in public with me. For some reason, people without any self control or too much confidence just walk up and say it. Sometimes they yell it from afar. Sometimes they just yell, “basketball?”
But maybe I’m just bitter because, no. I don’t play basketball. Whenever I’m asked, I have to admit to my lack of coordination in high school, a sore subject for me. I tell them that I tried to learn, but never got the hang of it. Instead, I was on the swim team for four years, and was an active member of mock trial. (embarrassing?)
Some people are content with this answer. They’ll shrug they’re shoulders and smile up at me with pity, like I have a pegleg or a black eye. Then, they will just leave me alone. But others get riled up. Once, a guy said, “What a waste!” as he threw his hands straight up in the air and walked away without another word. Another offered to coach me for his league, and I swear that I could see tiny dollar signs in his eyes. But when I told him I was almost 21, he slammed his fist on the counter at Wal-Mart with a loud, “damnit!”
Some try to be sly about it. First they’ll ask if I’m a model to butter me up. (This is a load of bull because I weigh more than 105 lbs). Then they’ll drop the basketball bomb. Or if I’m with my 5-foot-8 sister, they’ll say, “do you girls play basketball?” but blatantly stare directly at me. (Note: my sister, Maggie, has never been asked when I’m not around).
For those who aren’t happy with the truth, I’ll sometimes tell them I quit basketball for volleyball. But I neglect to tell them that I played volleyball my freshman year and won the most improved award. And if you are unfamiliar with this particular award, it is a pity award reserved for the worst on the team. But luckily, I broke my leg falling down a hill the following summer, and was forced to ‘retire’ my volleyball ‘career.’
It’s always the same stare. I’d love to say that it’s my beauty or sparkling aura or something that causes a double take, but it’s not. It’s my size. The drill goes like this: Glance at me, look away. Stop moving feet, stop speaking, stop breathing. Look back at me. Look at my head, look at my feet. Tilt the head to see if I’m wearing heels. Eyes widen upon realization that I’m not. Look back up. Regain motor control. Move on with their lives. (Those who don’t move on are the ones who ask me if I play basketball.)
I’m looking forward to the age where I no longer look like an athlete. The only thing that can save me from this question is time, but in the meantime, I’m going to shrug it off. Maybe I’ll start telling people that I’m in the WNBA. Or, as a friend recently told me, I’ll answer their question like this:
Q: Do you play basketball?
A: No. Are you a horse jockey?
Or
Q: Do you play basketball?
A: No. Do you play mini golf?
