The Appeal of Effete Sports

Sports have always vexed me. Although I admire a sort of hazily idealized sporting temperament, I have little interest in the "down and dirty" exertions of actual sports. Perhaps this extends back to my scrawny youth, where due to a short stature I was inevitably thwarted in my timid pursuits to, err, catch the ball. Subsequently, I’ve only pursued and practiced sports in which size, strength and innate talent can be easily overlooked through a generous application of money—in other words, effete sports. After all, sports depend on order: without rules, there is no game. And effete sports are great because the style with which one abides by the rules is a criterion for success.

The course of my sporting life was determined early in childhood. Although diminutive, I didn’t have the stomach or coordination to pursue gymnastics, so I quickly turned to my first fantasy love: horses. While I truly enjoyed the connection between horse and rider, I mostly appreciated the confidence and polish a well-turned heel grants upon the wearer. As the years passed, I became a much more accomplished rider, and although I enjoyed the exhilaration of jumping, I thought show-jumping was rather crass. Instead I preferred equitation, in which riders are judged by how pretty they look going over fences. Yes, there is no greater feeling of satisfaction than knowing I kept my heels down, back arched, hands quiet and every hair firmly French braided in place (under a hairnet, under my velvety helmet) no matter what was going on with my clumsy-ass horse.

Unfortunately the faith I once had in my equestrian talent has been shaken, perhaps for good. A friend owns a horse, and rarely gets to see anyone else ride it, which can be helpful for evaluating problems and checking for lameness. Naturally, when she asked to help her out in this fashion, I was thrilled not only to get back on the horse, but also to demonstrate my consummate skill and refinement. The horse did not take well to me and seemed quite out of sorts while I groomed her and tacked up. I thought little of it, however, and gamely mounted despite her attempts to escape me (literally, shying away from the mounting block whenever I approached). At first things went quite well, my posture was impressive and my hands steady. As for the burning sensation in my thighs, I was willing to ignore it. I led the mare through her paces, and after a few minutes felt comfortable enough to coax her into a canter. Well, not so much a canter as a sudden drop in equilibrium, followed by me quickly losing my stirrups and attempting to right myself while the horse ducked and lurched under my inexpert guidance. After somehow slowing to a walk, I suggested it might be prudent to move onto some other activity—barely saving face but not my self-confidence. Well, so much for that.

At the time, however, I could not fully assimilate what a paradigm shift had taken place that fateful day. Later in the summer, during a break from a delightful mixed doubles badminton match, I attempted to teach a friend how to fence using badminton racquets. I enjoyed the sport in my youth, and although never very good, I prided myself on at least the grasp of the fundamentals. I also enjoyed being able to casually mention "Oh yes, fencing. Well I used to do a bit of that." I quickly covered the footwork basics and was quite pleased in how incomprehensible they remained to my tall, athletic friend. Truly, I was the master of an esoteric skill! He looked clumsy in comparison to my swift feet and impeccable balance! I deftly demonstrated the art of the parry-riposte with my light and agile racquet. I had just executed my own personal coupe de grace (a zesty advance-lunge) when I felt something. In my leg. I had lunged a bit too far. The triumphant smile wiped away, I glumly sat out the rest of the match, which we happened to be losing anyway. Truth be told, I don't quite have the "wingspan" to be a serious badminton contender.

Undaunted by this failure in racquet sports, I soon developed a keen interest in tennis. Although originally coerced into watching, my interest was truly piqued by the classic tennis whites at Wimbledon. Roger Federer won me over with his grandfather cardigans, a sartorial trend that I had been vainly attempting to pioneer in my humble city. Imagine the validation I felt in seeing his smartly embroidered cable knits. With the inimitable zeal of a recent convert, I thrilled at every volley and despaired at every unforced error during the historic Federer-Nadal match. Tennis personalities obligingly slaked a thirst for celebrity knowledge. Andy Murray has a border terrier, a diminutive yet noble breed, and a specimen of which I also happen to own and love. If one were to type "rafa nadal" into a Google toolbar, the first suggestion is "rafa nadal girlfriend."

Regardless, watching so much tennis reminded me of the days when I had tried my hand at the sport. I wasn't half bad. Why did I ever stop playing anyway? I vowed to resolve this conundrum at the next opportunity, which shortly presented itself while on vacation with my family. My brother needed a tennis partner, so I volunteered after everyone else in my family had injured themselves playing him. I approached our informal match with trepidation and a secret thrill. Surely I had learned something from all those hours in front of the HDTV. In fact, I could tell I was on the verge of discovering a secret and heretofore undeveloped talent. With a spring in my step, I threw the ball into the air and served into a family on the adjacent court.

Despite my many recent failures and attendant body aches (who knew the wrist could hurt in such a way?) I’ve developed a passion for the modern pentathlon. For those unfamiliar, it is truly the sine qua non of effete sports, one that combines swimming, equestrian, fencing, running and riflery into an all-day pageant of stunning endurance. Unfortunately, despite expert Internet searches, my efforts to find a modern pentathlon trainer in my metropolitan area have so far met with failure. So, if anyone out there knows of a suitable candidate (or a good polo grounds). I can be reached at Elizabeth.Rossiter@gmail.com.