When I was a pre-teen, I briefly ventured into the world of girls’ basketball.

To anyone who knows me, this is laughable.

I’ve been known to trip on my own two feet. I throw and catch like my arms are made of limp, overcooked spaghetti. I don’t like to run. And I’ve always been somewhat of a pacifist, a peace advocate, and frankly, a huge wimp. Competition makes me shudder and curl up in the fetal position.

What, then, compelled me to join “MLGBA,” a local basketball league for girls with an overly long acronym?

I think it was the height thing.

I’ve always been tall for my age. Now, as a 20-year-old college student, people do not frequently comment on my extra inches. But growing up, the fact that I towered over all the girls and boys my age (and older than me) was a huge deal.

In middle school, sports were the cool thing to do. Every girl I knew played field hockey, soccer, softball, lacrosse, or basketball. Basketball. Well, I thought, I am tall. Let’s give it a shot!

Soon I realized I had drastically overestimated myself. At the very first practice, my lack of skills was noted. The assistant coach took me aside to a faraway half-court and forced me to practice my layups until I wanted to throw myself into that stupid, unreachable basket.

“Aim for the backboard!” she encouraged.

I watched my teammates do elaborate drills that involved yelling out names and passing several basketballs at once. I didn’t want to be doing that – too scary – but I didn’t want to be the loser who needed extra help, either.

Still, I kept with it. Unlike ballet, girl scouts, and Hebrew school (dropped ‘em all), I decided not to be an instantaneous quitter this time around.

One of the strict rules of this basketball league was that everyone had to get game time, no matter how bad they were. At the first game, my coach yelled out five names of five girls: five athletes, five mini-basketball pros, five girls I found myself despising.

I sat on the bench with the other rejects, the cold bottle of water my mom had packed me clutched in my hand. I glanced up and saw my parents’ smiling faces in the bleachers: they knew I sucked, but they didn’t care. And I loved them for that.

Eventually, I was called in to play. I couldn’t believe it. Finally, my height was working to my advantage: my position was center.

I was an immovable object in the middle of the center circle. I fouled people left and right – the referee was constantly blowing his whistle because of me. I was always forgetting some crucial rule about where I could and couldn’t stand, what I was supposed to do, where I needed to be. I would have my back turned for what felt like a mere moment, and the next thing I knew, everyone else would be on the other side of the court.

None of my teammates ever talked to me or even acknowledged my existence at future practices and games. During one game, a talented point guard, Lena, who seemed to be on the court 90 percent of the time, jogged over to the bench, sweaty and accomplished, when it was finally her turn to swap with someone else.

She left an enormous space between us on the bench. If I weren’t so humiliated, perhaps I would’ve found this funny. It was as if the girls thought that my lack of skills was contagious, fearing if they sat too close to me, they might suddenly become the worst player on the team.

…

A Saturday several weeks later was another game day. I had been practicing with my dad all week.

I was 11 years old. And I had my game face on.

The first half went well. I didn’t do anything outrageously awful, and so my coach put me back in during the second half.

And then:

I was standing on the court. My teammates were passing the ball to each other. Suddenly, someone yelled, “Julia!” and I caught the ball roughly against my chest.

I dribbled it once. I looked up at the net. My coach was yelling “Aim for the backboard!”

So I did.

Swoosh. The ball bounced off the backboard and neatly into the net.

My teammates erupted into astonished cheers. My parents stood up and screamed my name. I couldn’t believe it. Like the total dork that I was, I stared at the net, completely flummoxed, while everyone else ran to the other side of the court and continued with the game.

…

During my year-long basketball career, that was the only shot I ever made. I tried a few other times – sometimes narrowly missing, usually sending the ball skyrocketing in a bizarrely wrong direction. But I had scored that one time, somehow. Was it dumb luck? The basketball gods shining down on me for a single, glorious moment? I’ll never know.

Though my foray into contact sports was brief, it was long enough for me. Ever since then, it’s been all books and solitaire… and maybe some Scrabble, if I’m feeling adventurous.

But only maybe. I’m not really a fan of competition.

Julia Perch is a junior at Drexel University studying English. She is currently the editorial co-op student for the Drexel Publishing Group and the managing editor of DPG Online. She can be reached at pg@drexel.edu

Sports