kickball ovenbird We had to pick teams for kickball. To make it fair the captains had to pick one boy and then one girl until there was no one left. Robert was the captain of his team. We were eleven years old. I stood in the middle of a pack of girls, my body flooded with cortisol, everything in me shrinking from this horrifying process of judgement and ruthless comparison. Both teams picked from the boys first because everyone knew that boys were automatically better at sports just due to the fact of their boy-ness. Then it was Robert’s turn to pick a girl for his team and in a moment that felt like half dream half nightmare, I heard him say my name. He’d picked me first. I stepped forward hesitantly, uncertain if this was a joke. He’d picked me first. This was not a thing that had ever happened before. I did not have a reputation for athleticism. I had a reputation for being an insufferable book worm. But he’d picked me first. I had a very brief moment where something like joy got stuck in my throat. He’d seen something in me. A potential I didn’t even know I had. This boy in my class thought I was a good choice for a kickball team. He thought I would be good at it. The joy formed and then I choked on it, because everyone started heckling Robert for his choice. They told him he was an idiot. They told him his team would lose for sure now. They asked why on earth he picked me. “She has a pretty hard kick,” he said, but his voice was faltering and his face turned red from a creeping shame. My own face was on fire. I wanted to go to the library and never come out. I wanted to get lost in the field by the railroad tracks. I wanted to go home. I don’t remember the outcome of the game. I don’t know who was picked next. I don’t even remember Robert’s last name. But I remember the way he smiled when he said my name, like I was worth something, like I was worth choosing. And I’ve never forgotten that—the way he believed in me when everyone else would have picked me last, the way he was so sure I was powerful. 260605 what's it to you? who go blather from