The Art of Not Getting Picked Last

The gym teacher stood with an air of authority, clipboard in hand and whistle poised at his lips. Kids jostled in a disorganized line, eyes already scanning for potential teammates and targets. Dodgeball days were notorious, pitting the swift against the clumsy, turning the gym floor into a miniature battlefield. Before the coach could utter a word, a voice cut through the chatter, and a kid stepped forward to make his plea.

Attention! I hope you don’t mind, but before we start the whole "choosing teams" routine, I’d like to interject for a minute.

Look, I appreciate the tradition. I do. Brutes and heavy hitters up front, fastest kids snag top picks, and then there I am, waiting for the dreaded sigh and that muttered "Alright, guess we'll take him" line. But this is a new year,  a new me, and i am absolutely tired of it.

To err on the side of efficiency I will forego the whole “look out for the little guy” , “everyone loves the underdog” approach (even though you should, and even though they do).

Let the record show that over summer break I clocked over 100 hours of video games, which is a feat almost impossible under the watchful eye of the conspirators I call “mom”, “dad”, and “bedtime”. All this is to say my hands have been through some stuff. These are the hands you want. Hands that have seen times of peace and times of war; hands that have single-handedly defeated waves of enemies.

And with that I rest my case, teach the floor is yours.

To which the gym teacher replied:

“Well, I was going to pick you to be team captain anyways, but your rousing speech has left us out of time, but well done”

I didn’t get picked last that day. Well, technically I didn't get picked at all. But at least I got one hell of a round of applause.