Some of us just aren't cut out for team sports

Team sports are good for kids. Unless you're an eight-year-old without an ounce of fat and it's two degrees and raining.

They say that kids get into sports because they're passionate about it. Or some such thing. Maybe that's the case with some kids. I started playing soccer because my friends were doing it. And my mom thought it was a good idea.

Oddly, I still get a tingle out of kicking a ball around once in a while. But during my three-year foray into team sports, I took too many balls in the face to ever get back into the game for real as an adult.

So it's 1978, I'm seven years old, wearing mud-caked soccer cleats. It's November and we're chasing the ball up and down a field covered in puddles. My tiny, red soccer shorts and jersey are soaked, clinging to my skin. I'm as cold as I've ever been.

The game is dominated by big girls, with rosy cheeks and rugged Scottish mothers who shout from the sidelines. Meanwhile, I try to stay warm and out of the way. Until half time when maybe we get to sit in someone's VW and drink hot chocolate for 20 minutes.

It's funny how, when you're seven, you never think "I don't have to do this." You just do it because mom packs you up in your gear on Saturday morning and drives you to the field. No questions asked.

And then, one day, in the middle of the game, I got it. I don't remember if something happened, or if I just realized how much I hated those rainy, Saturday morning soccer games. Whatever it was, it took me three years to get to No.

No, mom. I don't want to play soccer anymore. I don't like it.

And so, instead, she drove me to the barn every Saturday morning. And I trudged around in the rain, knee-deep mud and horse poop. And I dragged a cranky, mean pony to the ring and rode in circles for an hour.

And I had the giantest kid party ever. I friggin' loved it. Go figure.