A boy named Sue or a girl named Frank

I suck at baseball.

I also suck at football, basketball, hockey, golf, bowling or pretty much anything that involves hand-eye coordination.

Although publicly admitting that I am the last guy you want on your sports team does not threaten my masculinity, I do hesitate to offer the next line:

I don’t like sports. That, dear readers, is a much bigger threat to my masculinity. Do you have any idea how many Monday mornings I have had to bluff my way through the proverbial water-cooler conversation at the workplace?

Yeah, yeah that was a hell of a game last night; brutal interception. Tom Brady seemed a little off, don’t ya think? Sometimes, when I am deep in the midst of this dishonest parade of masculinity I scratch my balls for good measure and look around for a beer to swig.

The really sad part? I am the only man in my particular department. I work with a team comprised of all women. They all know much more about sports than me.

In fact, most of my gay friends are much better athletes and far more passionate about sports. Even they shun me when it comes to choosing sides for competition on the turf or court.

So it was almost ridiculous that the only “writing” job I could land when I returned to Maine in 1996 was a part-time sports reporter for the American Journal in Westbrook. How hard could it be, I reasoned. I needed the job, and I got my foot in the door with a newspaper near my home.

For the first time in my life, I started avidly reading the sports pages of other publications. I read everything that Tom Chard or Steve Solloway from the Portland Press Herald wrote, right down to their shopping lists. I subscribed to Sports Illustrated. I even tried watching ESPN but there was always the lure of some old Bette Davis movie on another channel.

But my masculinity was about to be redeemed. I was a sports writer. I should have no problems getting a date now, right?   Not exactly.

That fantasy ended about six months later while conducting an interview with a girls’ softball coach. He told me that Heather struck out the side in the second inning. Struck out the side?

The coach had to explain what striking out the side means. That was it. I was done. I went to my editor (almost in tears). I can’t do this, I said.

My editor either took pity on me (or punished me) by re-assigning me to cover the general assignment news beat for the towns of Windham and Standish.

It wasn’t so bad. At least I didn’t have to go to any more football games. I no longer got paid to watch basketball tournaments. Instead, I had the pleasure of attending Zoning Board of Appeals meetings in Standish. I was in my zone (so to speak).

In today’s politically correct world, where self-esteem is more important than reality, even kids like me make the Little League team. Every player seems to get a trophy. We bend over backward to include everyone in everything. I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.

For three summers in a row, I tried out for Little League. For three years in a row, I was never included on the team. My neighborhood chums (Ricky Johnson, Scott Lettelier, Ron Mapes, Doug Murray et al) all made their respective teams: Maremont, Shaw’s, Hunt’s, etc.

Trust me. It felt awful. But is also served me well. I learned pretty early on to focus my efforts elsewhere. While Ricky and Scott were sweating it out on the diamond, I wrote my first book at age 10. I’m pretty sure I also illustrated that literary masterpiece, entitled “Hurricane,” a gripping, fast-paced story about a family that refuses to evacuate their home during a killer storm.

My parents both knew that I would never make the team, but they let me try. More importantly, they allowed me to fail. They allowed me to experience pain, rejection and humiliation; experience which came in pretty handy only a few years later when Cheryl Ridolfi actually laughed at me for asking her to “go out” with me.

Flash forward 25 years, and you find me married to a beautiful woman and “coaching” a T-ball team. One of the parents scolded me for congratulating my team on winning on our second game. “Randy, in T-Ball, we don’t keep score.”

My response? “Well, maybe you don’t keep score, but they do,” I said, pointing to the kids on the field.

Lessons about losing, rejection and coming in second place are hugely valuable. Let’s not rob our children of those wonderful educational opportunities.