by Kathleen Makepeace

Created on: April 21, 2009

Sitting in an old minivan, me the fat kid in school with her fatter dad, discussing options on how to "get active": a slogan most promoted by the makers of the fatty food companies that created the fat people and the fat nation in the first place. The fat man asked me "So, what will it be, soccer or basketball?" he spoke in an irritating tone, as if there were no choice in the matter.

I attempted to avert the crisis: "Can I go back to dance class? At least I was with my friends-"

"No, you need to be doing something more active."

I looked at him a moment. His biggest daily physical activity was getting up out of his chair and using the bathroom. Part of me wanted to knock him out then and there, but another part of me said "Your only nine years old." That part of me told him: "Fine, soccer."

I had no idea what fun awaited me.

My first practice went along smoothly. That is, until actual people arrived. The team was ok for 20 something prepubescent girls who didn't care about my presence on their team. The coach was another story. When we all got our jerseys (which, for the record, were all the same size) all the other kids got a choice in their number. Not for fat kid. He balled up the jersey and chucked it at me. I tried to take a different one, but he put it back and said "No. This one."

The first game, I got to play defense: the position I was actually good at. Someone tried to kick the ball into the goal. No luck for them. My head blocked it and I nearly got a concussion. Members of the other team asked me if I was okay, but coach didn't want to hear any of it. I was staying and that was final.

Later that same game, the star player, Rosemary, tripped and fell. A member of the other team accidently stepped on her finger. She began bawling and the whole game came to a worried halt so her mother could carry her off the field.

The next game, and all those thereafter, I was forced to play foreword: A possession requiring lots of running, goal-scoring, and physical fitness. Promptly after, I took off my cleats, ran from the field and was greeted by my mother. She took me to my fat dad's house where he and his fat wife (aka: my stepmother) were leaning over the stove melting coca butter (aka: fat). I showered myself off, put on my clothes and got ready to see a movie with them.

We saw Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow and ate popcorn with lots of extra butter (aka: fat). We were leaving the theater, ready to go to a Mexican restaurant full of more fatty food, when

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