I hate PE.
This loathing goes back to elementary school. I was short and skinny and wore glasses — the trifecta of PE disgrace. I spent most Friday afternoons in grade school pressed against the handball wall trying simultaneously to be invisible and to avoid being picked last for teams.
I could count on being taken out first in dodgeball, failing to get the ball over the net in volleyball or getting nailed in the face with a kickball. No one passed me a soccer ball unless I was the goalie, and then I just craned my neck to watch the ball sail over my head.
Friday afternoon PE was an exercise in humiliation during which any academic victory I enjoyed during the week was instantly negated.
When I became a teacher, I swore to avoid PE. I wouldn’t put my students through the agony of being dragged outside in the blazing sun or the cold wind and forced to play a sport in which they had no interest. Imagine my surprise when I discovered it’s the only subject for which the state of California mandates the amount of time spent. Elementary school teachers have flexibility in the quantity of math or language arts they teach, but students must receive a minimum of 100 minutes of PE per week.
When teaching lower grades, I skated by on a combination of games and relay races. If Duck, Duck, Goose involves running, it counts as PE, right? Red Rover and freeze tag needed little planning and no one could get hit in the face with a ball. All fun, no humiliation.
With 10-year-olds, PE is more challenging. Athletic equipment is scarce, and Red Rover and dodgeball are now prohibited activities, as the threat of injuries and lawsuits loom large. There’s only so much one can do with a parachute and a few bouncy balls before the kids get bored and snarly. And then there are the students.
One on end of the athletic spectrum are the super-athletes. These are children who have spent hours honing their craft — baseball, soccer, football, gymnastics, dance — and often play for multiple teams. They know all the rules, even the obscure ones, and challenge all of my calls. They are highly competitive in every arena, turning even Steal the Bacon into a cutthroat activity.
It is amazing how often they bleed and how little they care. Skinned knees and even broken bones don’t stop them.
They’d have no qualms about taking me out in dodgeball.
Countless kids, however, struggle with PE. Some are my short, skinny doppelgangers, weak and awkward. Others battle obesity. They are uncomfortable with their bodies and uncomfortable with PE. They worry about being chosen last, about being laughed at, about not getting the ball and about dropping the ball if they ever do get it.
It’s no secret that children have less unstructured play time outside than in previous generations. We are nervous about letting our children roam freely, the specter of potential kidnapping hanging overhead.
Organized playdates have replaced lazy afternoons wandering the neighborhood, playing tag or climbing trees. For some kids, swimming, bike riding, roller skating, skateboarding or even being able to bounce a ball are a thing of the past. Games like Red Light, Green Light and Mother, May I are largely forgotten.
What’s a middle-aged, ungainly, PE-hating teacher to do? Most Fridays I sigh, lace up my tennis shoes and drag the kids out into the sunshine. If I had my way, we’d just throw some blankets down on the grass and read.
Instead, I bow to the demands of California’s Department of Education and the needs of both the super-athletes and the awkward PE-avoiders. I force them all to run a couple of laps, the super-athletes gleefully racing around the field while the others huff and puff and mutter quiet curses under their breath. If I’m in a really good mood, I might even run a few steps with them before slowing down to a walk.
I drag them through a few rounds of sit-ups, pull-ups and push-ups, even modeling a wobbly push-up just to show that anyone can do it. Finally I reward them with Sharks and Minnows or kickball. I cheer loudly for all of them, for every attempt, successful or not. We end the afternoon sweaty and tired, laughing and gently trash-talking.
I still can’t make a basket or a goal or hit a home run. Most of my students can beat me in a race. If there’s a game at which I can lose, I usually do. I’ve stopped dreading Fridays, though, knowing that we usually have a good time and that finally I won’t be picked last.
