I'm No Bo, You Know.

Not even as good as this guy.

I had two in-depth conversations about sport the other day. For anyone who knows me, this is noteworthy for many reasons. Firstly and most importantly: I don’t know anything about sport. Yes, I play a few sports regularly and have tried a few more over the years, with varying degrees of success. But as most of my unfortunate teammates, opponents and some supporters will bear witness – and as my ironic college nickname of ‘Smooth’ will confirm – I’ve never been particularly graceful or especially tuned-in to the social conventions of sport - nor particularly interested in acquiring the encyclopaedic knowledge of sport that some of my friends can espouse. Luckily, such a deadly combination of historical ignorance, physical incompetence and social awkwardness was never a source of serious concern for me; I just accepted myself as a clumsy nerd who happened to like playing sport.

My pre-college sporting ‘career’ was peppered with moments of ridiculously uncoordinated calamities. I broke my arm the first time I carried the ball in football, EVER. I dislocated the shoulder of a champion wrestler the first time I wrestled. I nearly bit through my own tongue playing basketball. I farted LOUDLY as I took off during the long-jump (winning, I might add). At my first pole vault invitational, I misaligned the bend of the pole and managed to vault myself away from the crash mat and into the bench of competitors – to the raucous applause of the crowd and the palpable annoyance of the shell-shocked vaulters-in-waiting who generously cushioned my landing. The list of my truly cringe-worthy primary and secondary school sporting mishaps made me something of a loveable idiot when it came to competition: I was never either the best or the worst player on any team, but you sure as hell didn’t want to be around me when things went wrong. ‘The Hammer’ is not a nickname that many co-ordinated middle school basketball players get – nor is it one that is earned without more than a few exceptionally violent fouls. A game I didn’t foul out of wasn’t worth playing in – fact.

So when I went to college, and tried new sports, I’m not sure why I expected anything to be different. It wasn’t, of course. I was as much a klutz at 18 ½ as I was at 18. I know… who’d have guessed, right? My one-week introduction to Lacrosse in my freshmen year of college resulted in me basically blowing $200 on protective wear for creative and misguided drinking games. After all, what could possibly be more fun for a drunk 18-year-old than massive gloves, a helmet and big stick – especially when you’re the only one who has all of these wonderful things?

In fact, college turned out to be a veritable smorgasbord of sporting mishaps, as I looked to fulfil the PE requirement of my degree with as many unfamiliar sports I could sign up for – and all of which ended badly. Taekwondo ended after 2 semesters when I accidentally broke the instructor’s nose with an ill-advised and poorly-executed sidekick during a sparring session. Needless to say, Gyo-san-nim Roberts (an ROTC jarhead) was not overly happy and the next few weeks of class included several demonstrations just for me, all of which seemed to end up with the back of his leg hooking the back of my head and sending me ungracefully to the mat.

Who's ready for a few laps? Backstroke...? No...?

I fared a little better in Beginner’s Golf, until one of my shots at the driving range managed to find its way in through the metal grid of the tractor cab that was protecting the ball collector. It was sometime, between giggles, before I was able to convince them that I hadn’t done it on purpose. Anyone who's seen me play golf will confirm that me hitting anything on purpose just isn't possible.

And then there was the Conditioning Swimming disaster, where my eagerness to commit to the class – and perhaps a latent penchant for skimpy swimwear – allowed me to introduce myself to my mostly male classmates as the only person in Speedos. Luckily, the act of swimming laps in a pool for 45 minutes is pretty anti-social, and I can only hope that everyone else was hung-over/still drunk enough not to remember by the time I reappeared in week 2, with my baggy shorts and averted eyes.

So when I get into a conversation about sport, I’m usually – instantly – out of both my depth and my comfort zone. And yet, this week, it happened twice.

And I can’t say that either conversation would be particularly interesting to write about. One was about the ridiculous and unrealistically short-sighted nature of the professional English football (soccer) managers’ jobs; the other was about the need to recognise a balance between ‘talking’ and ‘doing’, and being able to understand that different people motivate themselves and their teammates differently. At the time of each of these conversations, I’m sure I felt educated and entitled to forward an opinion.

Emotional Knapsack: disappointing on so many levels

But the fact is, really… I don’t know anything about sport. I know how to play some sports well, and I know how to help other people to play some sports well – but I am NOT the guy you want on your sports-themed pub quiz night. I’ve known people who can rattle off players on teams from 20 years ago. I’ve sat and heard someone who was failing out college list off the complete batting records of the entire 1993 Seattle Mariners. I am not that guy. I name my fantasy football teams after obscure Friends references. I pick my horse at Cheltenham every year on any tenuous link to me, the United States or general silliness. Shakalakaboomboom did not pay a very good return on my £5 investment this year. Every March Madness bracket I fill in has UNC as the champion, regardless of whether they’re any good or, indeed, even in the tournament in the first place. My Six Nations fantasy team usually consists of at least three guys who retired a few weeks before the competition begins. I am NOT the guy you want on your quiz team, but I AM the guy you want to be playing against.

At least, in quiz, the chances of me showing up in a shiny green Speedo are less likely. Not completely impossible, but far less likely. But what do I know...?