Mutant Powers

I have had 3 and only 3 athletic triumphs in my life, 2 of which make perfect sense. The other one was mystical.

In grade six I won the “Field Day” blue ribbon for “Target Pitch.” Field Day was an annual last-event-of-the-year for which no one ever explained the name. To me, the playground hardly qualified as a “field.” I now have to assume they meant “track and field” day, because it was mostly running, jumping, and throwing your shoulder out of joint. But as a fore-runner of today’s school awards days, which go to any length to make sure everyone wins something, my school included the fake Olympic event “target pitch.” I won because for a couple years, Bob and I had been playing “catch” constantly.

In grade twelve I won the archery contest—the concluding event of the archery portion of my “lifetime sports” class. There was much to be thankful for in this class. I was in a senior, so I realized that finally the purgatory called “gym class” would come to an end. Furthermore, this class had no football, volleyball, bombardment, or any other “let’s try to kill a twerp today” activity. The only other sport I remember from this class was golf. We hacked around in the gym for a week or so, then went to the Hiawatha golf course and did a 9-hole round of golf. I shot 93 for 9 holes. But—when we had our archery unit, I was head of the class. And at the final “tournament” I shot all bull's eyes except one which missed the bull’s eye by an inch. The gym teacher walked the row yelling “Paulson won—you’ll need all bull’s eyes to beat him.” I didn’t even know the teacher knew my name! But my archer triumph was no surprise. Bob and I had been doing archery avidly for about 4 years.

Here’s the spooky one. In my 2nd year of Bible college, I led a witnessing team for my Christian Service assignment. One Friday, just for fun, our whole team went 5-pin bowling (note: this is not real bowling—this is Canadian pretend bowling. Sorry). Well, it started out much as any other game/sport/athletic thing does for me. I was doing crummy. But somewhere in the first game, something happened. I was totally conscious of what was happening—I was deciding to bowl great. But I don’t know if I was active or passive in this. I want to get freaky and say that the forces of the universe aligned and I just said “OK, Universe, let’s have some fun.” Suddenly a switch flipped and I was killer. I was winning games. Then there was a game that everyone in the bowling alley played, in which the guy with the microphone gave a series of instructions: “knock out the far right pin; now just the center pin; now get a strike.” I won! The prize was a teddy bear, which I gave to my witnessing partner Yvonne (I had a crush on her—see “Primeval Journey: Girls”).

I’ve often thought about that crazy night of bowling. What if I could harness that power all the time? I’ve bowled occasionally since then, both 10-pin and Canadian-pretend style. Nothing. Back in the old rut. I stink. But that night in 1979, I had mutant powers.