It was always one of the most awkward moments of my entire week when I was in elementary school. I stood on the playing field, with two kids my age staring across at me with disdain. They would occasionally look at each other, their eyes pleading. Who would get stuck with me today?
I had an odd number of kids in my gym class. When it came time to pick teams for kickball, I was usually the last child standing—unassigned, unwanted, uncomfortable. I knew neither of them wanted me on their team any more than I wanted to play. But here we were. Usually, after a few moments of unnerving silence, the coach would chirp up and force one of them to pick me. Why couldn’t I just be the water girl? Why put everyone through this every kickball Thursday?
The curse of physical ineptness followed me through my primary and secondary school days. In fact, it followed me into my 30s. I believed I couldn’t, so I didn’t.
I was that kid. I got all As, not counting gym class. Gym class was not graded on a standard A–F scale. You either got an S for satisfactory or a U for unsatisfactory. Don’t get me wrong, I got the S, but it was a sham. I knew it. The physical education (PE) coach knew it. The other kids in class, oh, they knew it, too.
This was back in the 1970s. I can tell you, it was a time far removed from the “everyone gets a trophy” mentality. We used to do the President’s Physical Fitness Test each school year. You had to run, do push-ups and pull-ups, and complete other physical feats. I failed miserably at all of them.
The curse of physical ineptness followed me through my primary and secondary school days. In fact, it followed me into my 30s. I believed I couldn’t, so I didn’t. I remember thinking, “Why put yourself out there? You are going to fail.”
Then something happened when I turned 40. I had worked in Flint for a few years and had heard coworkers talking about running the Crim road race through downtown, ten miles. It may as well have been 100 miles, as far as I was concerned. As luck would have it, that year I was the reporter assigned by my TV station to cover the Crim live. I stood at the start line, wondering what possessed thousands of people to run ten miles on purpose. I noticed there were people at the start line of all shapes, sizes, and physical abilities.
They were all so excited to be there.
I was there when many of those people crossed the finish line. Some walked across. Some limped. No matter what kind of shape they were in, each of these people celebrated. I saw tears of joy streaming down the faces of dozens. Part of my assignment was to interview finishers, and believe me, I had questions.
“Why did you do this?” I heard myself ask a middle-aged woman who had barely finished.
“To show myself that I can! I can do anything I set my mind to,” she exclaimed through tears. “I was never an athlete. I was picked on growing up. I did this to prove to myself that I can.”
It was as if this woman could see into my soul. At that moment, I pledged to start running. Not only that, but I would also run the next Crim. I trained for a year. It was ugly. I had a fractured foot when I crossed the finish line, but cross it, I did. I was officially an athlete, at least in my own mind. That was really all that mattered. On that day, I believed I could, and I did. It’s been 17 years, and I’ve only missed two Crim races since.
An Emmy-nominated anchor/meteorologist/reporter at FOX66 and NBC25, Leslie Toldo recently retired from TV news after a career of over 30 years, nearly 20 in Flint. She is a blogger, writer, wedding and funeral officiant. Born and raised in Baton Rouge, LA, she graduated from the University of Wyoming. An avid kayaker, boater and runner, Leslie lives in Linden with her husband, Ellie the cat and three dogs: Henry, Gus and Lucy.
