continued from here.

 When I was four or five, my parents, convinced I was going to be a brain surgeon on the Space Shuttle one day, took me to Emory University to submit me to a bunch of tests that would prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I was the smartest guy of all time. I don’t remember much about the actual testing process except that I didn’t take to the testing process and was content to look out the window at planes flying by rather than engage in the testing process. I probably did some Memory-type, remember-the-color tests, inkblots, square-peg-goes-in-which-hole? things, maybe not. As I mentioned I was too busy pressing my face up against the window. Nonetheless, when the whole thing was over, I was officially “gifted”. Never mind that even to this day I don’t tie my shoes correctly or can remember what I had for breakfast this morning… I was gifted. I was labeled. I was The Man.

Dear toddlers reading this: Whatever you do, if you’re ever in a similar situation, don’t, under ANY circumstances, do what the tester asks. If he says “What color do blue and yellow make?”, put your hands down your pants, jump around, and shout “Pee-pee! Pee-pee!” at the top of your lungs. If he asks you perform some rudimentary long division, stab him in the throat with the pencil. If he gives you a crayon instead of a pencil, eat it. Whatever you do, don’t “pass”. Trust me.

If it sounds like I’m finally getting out some deep-seated resentment of my parents for putting me through all that, I apologize. I just think that kids and teens have enough pressure as it is without having to try to consistently live up to your parents’ expectations (expectations heightened by some two-bit shrink calling you gifted).

OK, off the soapbox.

All that being said, my formative years weren’t out of the ordinary (and maybe this was one of the problems). Dad didn’t drink and beat me, Mom didn’t fool around on the side. No one died unexpectedly, got arrested, had a heart attack, defaulted on a loan, won the lottery, saved orphans from a burning building. The only thing was the aforementioned sibling age gap.

Because of the large age difference (Charles was in college before I started first grade), I was for all intents and purposes an only child that just happened to have three brothers. By the time I was seven or eight, I was a latchkey kid. A loner. I had a lot of time to myself. Even though my dad was doing pretty well financially, my mom decided once I was old enough to make my way home by myself from school each day she’d go back to work. Apparently she would rather work than sit on the couch and watch TV, waiting for me to get home. My mom’s weird.

I’ve always been a big sports fan, and ever since I was young I’ve tried to stay involved in something athletic, be it softball, dodgeball, basketball, tennis, football (briefly and rather unsuccessfully) and soccer. My first memory of organized sports, though, wasn’t a fantastic goal (had quite a few, thank you very much) or a sensational catch (ditto); it’s of my father literally dragging me, kicking and screaming, out the door, into the car, and off to church league tee-ball tryouts. I never felt an overwhelming desire to be surrounded by a bunch of “friends” for friendly competition. I was happy in my own little imagination. (My brother Charles relates that oftentimes he’d look out the window and watch me playing army man by myself, my gun a tennis racket, running around barking orders to my loyal imaginary troops)

After that first day of tryouts I never looked back though when it came to sports. I took to each endeavour whole-heartedly, and dominated my opponents unmercifully. Unfortunately my early athletic success simply altered my parents’ expectations to include Sundays playing for the Falcons before taking off for another zero-gravity operation on Monday. But I’m not bitter. Seriously.

to be continued…