What I remember most vividly about those mortifying schoolyard picks was the way the P.E. teacher always seemed distracted, doing her own thing on her clipboard while the rest of us endured this horrifying ritual.

The same two biggest or most athletic kids were always the captains while the rest of us lined up like inmates against the chainlink wall.  For some, the wait ended rather quickly so they probably didn’t even think of it as torture.  For the rest, as the line dwindled, the feeling of humiliation grew with each pick that wasn’t our salvation.

I was never picked last because I was always lucky enough to have friends whispering in the captain’s ear on my behalf.  I would stand there, making conversation with the person next to me, trying to seem nonchalant, until they were inevitably called. So I’d move to the next person and make a joke while begging one of my friends with my eyes.

I don’t blame them.  I sucked at kickball.

I do blame the teacher.  This mentor, this person who presumably became a teacher to mold the minds of youths into future leaders.

I do blame the fucking teacher who somehow felt this 10 minute execution line wasn’t time wasted.

I do blame the teacher who never realized or just didn’t fucking care that counting off was a quicker way to pick teams.

I do blame the teacher, my disinterested bully.