In junior high, I had a total crush on a guy who barely knew I existed. We were in some of the same classes. The things I did to get this guy’s attention. I joined the chess club. He was expert, and I had never played chess so that didn’t help.
He was also captain of the golf team. Desperate (and I would have had to have been to have contemplated golf), I decided to turn out for the team. The instructor lined us up at a group of tees at the driving range. He was demonstrating grip. He asked my crush to help.
My flame stepped behind me and demonstrated the grip. I was so totally overcome at his nearness, I was completely incapable of taking in the instruction. He stepped back and told me to make my swing. I looked at the ball, looked to the side at him between my downcast lashes, and let ‘er rip.
The club head hit the ball with a satisfying thwack. The ball arced up and out into its flight. Uh oh, The ball kept arcing up, and then over my head, and then back, beaning the hapless golf team coach in the head.
I was humiliated and being of fair complexion, my blush rivalled a great sunset, starting at the neck and going all the way to the hairline. When the coach suggested perhaps the golf team was not the best choice for me, I slunk off.
Once great thing about the loves of junior high is how fleeting they are. We moved that summer, and a really cute guy lived in the building across the way. I forgot all about him.