By K. K. McClelland

Thinking about it now, I doubt I was the first to take the action I opted for that day in 1954.  No doubt choices have been made by others in similar circumstances.  However, with the exception of two of my classmates, I doubt it held any long-term significance for anyone else.

Under physical education teacher Jan Sander’s guidance, choosing teams in gym class was accomplished either by numbering off 1, 2, 1, 2…,  having appointed captains choose team members one at a time, or posting a list of teams determined by random selection.  As might be expected, captains always chose the most skilled players first to avoid having a team that could do nothing more than stumble over one another while attempting to return the ball over the net, bump heads when reaching for the ball, or worse yet, volley the ball just short of the net.

            Once the consummate skilled players were chosen, captains then chose popular girls, followed by the super-smarts, with individuals who were either physically or socially challenged being chosen last.  I considered myself middle-of-the-road when it came to athletic prowess, arriving at that conclusion because I was almost always one of the middle picks.  I was never selected first, but, gratefully not last either.

Although I was the fastest female runner on the Banner High School track team, I was not skilled at volleyball.  Although I felt I was well-regarded by most everyone in my class, I never considered myself “popular.”  Although I possessed musical talent, the suffering I endured in geometry and Latin classes made it painfully clear I would never be one of the “super-smarts.”

Knowledge of my self-perceived shortfalls caused me little concern. Being fairly self-confident, I seldom gave those notions about myself a second thought, but rather pushed on to excel in those activities in which I knew I could be successful.  However, on this particular day, in this particular class, in my sophomore year at BHS, my own notions about myself and my regard for others changed significantly.

An incident occurred during Friday afternoon gym class that carried me into a weekend of pondering the value of friendship, school cliques, inclusion vs. exclusion, teamwork, and a variety of other teenage dilemmas.  On Wednesday of that week, I presented a proposal that caused a few of my classmates to avoid my presence.  In my mind it was silly and ridiculous they should use this situation to shun me.  After all, it wasn’t as if I had purposely tried to make them angry.

The issue of changing the organization of the upcoming intramural volleyball tournament  was central to a discussion generated during gym class earlier in the week.  Two weeks prior, Miss Sanders asked for volunteers from our 5^th period gym class to work on a committee to create a play grid.  Seven class members volunteered.

Among the seven of us, three plans were submitted.  One plan, which all we agreed was interesting, but needed more tweaking, was submitted by two of the girls.  The second plan, prepared by four others was, with the exception of a couple of changes, very similar to the tournament plan already in place.  My grid plan which I had to submit independently due to scheduling conflicts, was quite different from the other two submissions.  Not having partners to play devil’s advocate, I worked from the mindset of trying to do something creative . 

The day we submitted our proposals I assumed Miss Sanders would go with one of the more conventional play grids.  I was elated when she selected my plan.  I noticed disappointment from the other girls, but I never imagined the fallout.  Cold shouldered vibes were palpable the next couple of days and it was clear my plan was creating a rift. 

During Friday afternoon gym class, Miss Sanders appointed two captains, flipped a coin to determine which of the two would make the first selection, and instructed them to make their choices.  Heads.  Ramona won the toss.  Both she and Sally cast glances up and down the line of girls dressed in their navy blue cotton sleeveless one-piece uniforms.  You could sense Ramona and Sally making mental notes of who they wanted on their team, while each girl in the line, not wanting to be selected last, silently repeating the “choose me next, choose me next” mantra. 

I was no exception.  My heartbeat quickened to the rhythm of my internal utterance of “me next, me next.”  At age 15, most of us were far too self-conscious to wildly wave our hands in the air like we did in elementary school to attract the attention of the two captains, but our desire to be chosen first, or at least second or third, was not diminished in spite of our reluctance to physically exhibit our anxiety. 

It didn’t take long to recognize the obvious unfolding.  The pecking order in team selection, though unspoken, tended to benefit the individual captains on some level.  Ramona and Sally choose skilled players first, followed by the popular girls in an attempt to improve or maintain their own social standing in situations outside the gym.  Next were friends of the two captains.  The super-smart, nerdy girls were selected hoping they could be counted upon to help with homework.  Chosen last, of course, were the physically or socially challenged girls in the class.  One by one, as the selection progressed, I began to anticipate the result, and my heart was in my throat.  I felt as though my chest would burst with pent-up humiliation when I was chosen last.  I slammed the ball hard when it came my turn to serve.  It spiked out of bounds, hitting the gymnasium ceiling, before the bounce off the rafters sent it reeling down just inside the net on our half of the court.  The ball met with disaster every time I served and, whether they were or not, I was certain my team mates were disgusted with my performance.  By my third serve I was so humiliated all I wanted to do was head for the shower to escape the comments of disappointment I heard, real or imagined. 

All weekend the incident preyed on my mind.  It was all so unfair.  When I tried to talk to my mother about the situation, she merely offered her usual “life isn’t fair” mini-sermon.  And my penchant for always trying to fix things begged the question, “How can I make it fair?” 

By Sunday afternoon, after a sleepless night and prayers to “Someone” I doubted was even listening, I determined that if and when Miss Sanders chose me as a “captain of the day” I would reverse the selection process; i.e., physically and socially challenged first!  What a novel idea, I thought, except for the sure as shootin’ guarantee of the loss of the game.  I didn't care.  For the first time I knew the utter pain of being chosen last. 

On Monday, when we circled up in class, I was stunned when Miss Sanders selected me as captain.  My heart pounded and my face broke out in a sweat wondering if I could possibly carry though with my plan. 

Miss Sanders tossed the coin.  Conflicting thoughts numbed my brain as I watched the coin tumble over and over in seemingly slow motion, both on its ascent and descent, glittering in the winter sun that poured through windows at the south end of the gym.   I won the toss.  For a brief moment I gave up the idea.  I could feel my body heating up, sweat was making a dark circle under the armpits of my gym uniform, and yet I shivered. 

I gathered my resolve as I shouted, "Rose Bannister."  I felt my face flush at the momentary dead silence followed by gasps of disbelieving classmates.  They must have thought I was totally stupid to not pick Janelle, volleyball player extraordinaire.  “What in the heck is she doing,” I imagined them saying.  “Is she nuts?” 

Sharon, the other captain, looked at me quizzically and yelled out Janelle’s name.  There was no question in my mind I would pick Rose Leaston next.  Not only did the two girls share first names of Rose, they also had the distinction of always being chosen last in team sports.  Rose Leaston was both physically disabled and mentally challenged; while Rose Bannister was socially inept, but much brighter than anyone gave her credit. 

Both girls were from financially deprived families which compounded the problem of social acceptance for them.  Both had bad teeth and ratty looking hair (Rose L. a blonde and Rose B. a brunette).  Both wore clothes that appeared to be hand-me-downs from women 20 years their senior and neither ever had white bucks or saddle-shoes like the rest of us.  Most everyone politely acknowledged their presence by speaking to them in the classroom or in the hallways, even though they didn’t go out of their way to socialize with either of them, but it seemed they were always totally disregarded in gym class. 

Selection process continued with Sharon choosing all the best players and her close friends.  The expectation, of course, was we would be defeated.  We were, but it wasn't so bad.  Although we didn't win, we kept the pace.  There were no super-stars on our team, no extremely popular girls, and only two of my close friends, but we drew energy from somewhere that worked.  Individually and together they gave their best, and excitement radiated from our side of the net. 

The instant the bell rang at the end of class period I broke away fast from the gym floor and ran to the dressing room.  Standing in the privacy of the shower stall, the warm water washed away my pent up frustration and I began to feel satisfaction in the outcome of the game.  I stayed in the shower until the everyone gone to avoid any conversation, then quickly towel dried and scrambled into my clothes. 

Knowing I was running behind schedule I scurried up the stairs to the locker room one floor above.  No one was in there when I entered, or so I thought.  I whirled the combination on the lock, grabbed my books, and slammed the door, relocking it, to get going to my sixth hour class.  While stuffing my text books into my school bag, I was startled to hear a voice say, "Melissa."  I turned, to find Rose Bannister standing a few feet to my right.   In my pre-occupied rush to get to my locker I didn’t notice her presence.  She had tears in her eyes as she said "Melissa, thank you for choosing me first today.  No one has ever chosen me first for anything.  I really appreciate it."  I fumbled for words, trying to hold back my own welled up tears, to acknowledge her appreciation and said something as innocuous as “That’s OK, it was a good game.”  She was gone before I could get the words out. 

I wanted to tell her that I knew how she felt but, in reality, I could not.  Rose Bannister was always chosen last or next to last and had been as far back as I could remember.  Was it since third grade?   Until the previous Friday, I had never experienced that humiliation.  Being chosen last in gym class the prior week was emotionally crushing for me, but Rose Bannister’s expression of appreciation for being chosen first on this day taught me how easy it can be to make a difference for someone else. 

The game we played that day had nothing to do with scoring  points.  The strategy I took was a nose-thumbing idea of “I’ll show them a thing or two!” to purposely exclude from my team those who had treated me with disdain.  A plan initially hatched for revenge transitioned into a determination to do what is right and just, with a surprising result.

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