Everybody has flaws. Some people are hopelessly self-involved. Some have embarrassingly poor work ethic. Others are irrepressibly obnoxious. I am all of those things. Also, I'm incapable of catching a football.
Yep. Right up there with inexplicable issues like the origin of the universe and how Joe Buck still has a job as an NFL commentator (OH NO HE DIDN'T), an issue equally pertinent to society resides: how can it seriously be THAT hard for Alosha to catch?
Since I was a young lad, I'd like to think I've at least been of average athletic ability. I could always run pretty fast, and in elementary school that is usually the best possible indicator of athleticism, and just general greatness. Unfortunately, as we matured, and athletics began to require more diverse sets of skills from us burgeoning stars than running in a straight line at an acceptable pace, it became clear I could not keep up with my peers. Yes, unfortunately for me, catching things tends to be the most prominent next step in our competitive evolution.
It was another fine day at Pierce Elementary School. The sun was probably shining, and I likely looked absolutely dapper in whatever awful sweater-khaki pant combo my mother had worked me into that morning. It was a "Gym Day", so eventually gym class came. As weather permitted, we were playing kickball that day. I wasn't terrible at kickball, I could kick it about as well as most guys and I could still run in a line pretty fast; as long as you kept me out of the outfield. Even then, I knew all too well that I was not able to catch any round objects being propelled at me at absolutely any velocity, but that day I had been playing well and got caught up in the moment. I flew too close to the sun. As I made hilarious banter in the backfield, awaiting one more out so I could kick the ball far again, said ball shot high into the air in my direction.
Either this kid really got under the ball when he hit it or the trauma of the incident somehow enhanced the memory, because that ball was REALLY high. As it came plummeting towards the ground, I calculated its trajectory with lightning quick precision and put myself directly underneath its landing zone. My hands outstretched, it came down right into my artfully placed arms, sat there for a fraction of a second, then spilled onto the ground. My gym teacher caught her tongue as she retracted the "3 OUTS!" she had begun to proclaim. I just sort of looked at my feet, until my friend Jared came over laughing and said "HAHAH THAT WAS HILARIOUS! YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE, RIGHT!?". Right.
I don't think that I lack the hand-eye coordination. My prowess in typing fast and being super good at Xbox would clearly confirm this. No, I think I just lack that "it" factor. Football coaches have tried to help it for years, but eventually all have came to the same conclusion: I was a lost cause. I put my hands in the right place, create a perfectly shaped triangle between my outstretched index fingers and conjoining thumbs... It just doesn't work. It just bounces off. Perhaps my hands have a different structural make up than others that somehow limits me. Finally, I came to terms with myself. I was a runningback for a reason. God didn't want me to catch the ball. He had smaller, more mediocre plans in store for me.
***
In 2009, Martin Robinson lost his Cutters catching gloves. He did not purchase another pair. In 2011, Robinson caught the ball on a swing route for -1 yards in practice. He continues to drop perfectly aimed throws, tosses and passes of all kinds to this day.
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