My asthma is so bad, I get winded just trying to live vicariously through this guy.
I don’t “get” sports.
Throw me into a sports bar, and I’ll wander around as helpless as a lost child in a grocery store. Slip me into a conversation about Brett Favre and I’ll nod and smile like a Japanese businessman on his first trip to America, silent and polite in my confusion. The other day a co-worker made a reference to Randy Moss, and I had to google him. Upon admitting this, I claimed I was not a true American and though there was laughter, no one argued against that fact.
I know I’m not the first woman to admit this, but I’m definitely the first woman in my immediate family to make this claim. Somewhere along the lines of the Prescott genetic makeup a glitch occurred, making me the shame of my livelihood. To this day, I firmly believe that, no matter how fantastic or accomplished they are, my Mother will never approve of anyone I date until they silently admit to her that the Oakland Raiders are the best team in the NFL. (She was born and raised in Oakland, and she doesn’t deal with the “Black Hole,” just to be clear).
It would be an obvious connection to make that I’m too much of an “art-loving soul” to deal with that chunk of Americana, but I know what the real reason is: I could never be an athlete, if my life depended on it, and in a way I may resent that fact.
It’s not that I never tried (Oh, I did), it’s that I was physically prohibited from engaging in such acts. I grew up as an asthmatic, afflicted since I was four months old. Though this is a fairly common disease (especially in smog-heavy Los Angeles), there were few people I knew growing up who had it as bad as I did.
We’re talking several inhalers constantly stocked in my childhood backpacks; specific instructions given to the school nurse, which was more or less a battle cry to the rest of the school that I was somehow “different” and should be treated accordingly. Staying home from school when breathing became too tough, firmly attached to a machine bad-assedly named, “the nebulizer” (I always thought that if an Asthmatic superhero ever existed, then surely The Nebulizer – or ‘The Neb’ in the street-smart animated TV version – would be the sickly super villain).
During kickball games, I sat on the side; Out of sheer boredom (and perhaps budding comedic chops) I assumed the role of “commentator” on various games, loudly reciting what I could see from my vantage point on the bench in my best Harry Carey impression. I made do with the circumstances I was given.
After several years of voluntarily bowing myself out of physical activity, I reached a point of realization that either I was still deeply asthmatic, or simply out of shape for my lack of participating. I still don’t know the real answer.
If my life were anything like Inception, my asthma inhaler would surely be my ‘totem.’ Representing both nostalgia for a childhood spent wheezing instead of sprinting, as well as sadness for an era characterized by inescapable nerdiness. Asthma is nature and genetics doing all of the work for you in categorizing you as a “nerd.” It is a helpless choice bestowed upon you from above that no amount of “cool kid” clothes or slang or attitude can truly remedy.
Usually I can kick my resentful hatred for sports in the backseat of my frustrated mind, but all it takes is seeing the players dash effortlessly on the field, the fans leap up and down with unbridled enthusiasm, or the simple description of what it’s like to run and not get winded after 5 seconds and I’m done.
Somewhere in the world lies a model/actor's resume with the credit, "ASTHMA MODEL." Wheezing was never this fashionable.
My name is Julia Prescott, and sports – if you’re listening, my distaste for you is god-given, please don’t take it personal.
