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THE UNIVERSITY DAILY KANSAN
Details, page 2
Published since 1889 by the students of the University of Kansas
Monday February 16,1987 Vol.97,No.96 (USPS 650-640)
Hays applauds Seib when he returns home
Bv IOSEPH RRFE1LO
Staff writer
HAYS — On the same basketball court he had played on a schoolboy more than 13 years ago, Wall Street Journal reporter Gerald Seib heard his hometown mayor proclaim Saturday as "Gerald Seib Day."
Red and white balloons, Valentine's day hearts, a large U.S. flag, and posters saying, "Jerry, We're Glad You're Home" and "God Bless You" adorned the gym at Hays' Thomas More Prep-Marian school, where about 400 city leaders, former classmates, teachers and friends gathered to wel-
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the courage with which Seib endured his ordeal in Iran made him a world hero.
"But you were a hero to us before all this happened," he said.
Before the public reception, Seib said that for one fleeting moment during his detention in Iran, his mind went back to his days as Kansan editor in fall 1977.
At that time, Iranian students demonstrated several times on campus against U.S. policies and the Shah of Iran.
Seib said that those events were not covered enough by the Kansan then, and said that the newspaper should have paid closer attention
I'm just a phys.ed. fugitive
First Person
I admit it! I'm a complete failure at anything athletic. Not only do I get tennis elbow from doing push-ups, I am the only person I know who gets negative scores on video games. I think when the Lord was passing out hand-eye coordination, I dropped mine.
Undoubtedly, this lack of coordination was caused by some childhood trauma. I'm willing to bet it was my elementary and high school gym classes that did it. My earliest memory of gym class is the time in fourth grade when a basketball rebounded off my face, breaking my glasses.
Everyone told me I should have caught the ball.
Lisa A. Maloney
I've always been told that. I should have caught the ball. I should have ducked, hit it with my hands, the racket, the bat, the paddle, the pool cue, a textbook, the kid in front of me. But I never could react that quickly. One minute, I'd be standing around, minding my own business, the next, I'd be eating plastic.
My classmates were another reason I hated gym class. The coaches usually were rather decent types, who just shook their heads sady, and tried not to watch as I fumbled the ball, hacked divots and missed targets by 20 yards.
In addition, for some reason, I always ended up in the same class as the members of the so-called "popular crowd" who dedicated their spare class time to making my life miserable.
Whenever we played badminton, I'd hear, "Hit the ball, Maloney!" — or tennis, "Hit the ball, Maloney!" — or even ping-pong, "Hit the ball, Maloney!" I could always tell if Kelli was absent. The gym would be silent save for the reverberating echo of a ball bouncing past me to the farthest corner of the room.
I remember one "Teen Queen" named Kelli, who found me especially hopeless. She liked gym class. And, she regarded it as a personal insult if some of the other students found gym as thrilling as Chinese water torture. Because I had a reputation for being a "brain," in addition to being clumsy, Kelli took to criticizing my every move.
When we played softball, I'd hear,
"Hit the ball, Maloney!" shrimd
from the sidelines. It wasn't the
coach. She had her hands over her
eves.
We were playing volleyball one day, and Kelli had just finished snarling her 40th "Hit the ball," when a volleyball came flying out of nowhere and hit her square in the face. Hard.
I felt sorry for her, for about 20 seconds.
By the time I graduated, anything having to do with athletics held about as much appeal for me as an unwashed gym sock. And you'd have to agree that I'd have to be either masochic or crazy to ever take another gym class again.
Well, the Lord and certain institutions of higher education have a sneaky sense of humor. In order to graduate from college, I again had to pass P.E.
With my record, I figured I'd better start early — sophomore year — so if I flunked a few courses, I'd still have plenty of time to find a course that I could pass with a minimal amount of humiliation and effort.
Scanning the pages of the catalog, I knew finding a course that fit that criteria wasn't going to be easy. Baseball, basketball, volleyball, racquetball, handball. There it was again, that nasty four-letter word, BALL. Any game with a spherical object which coordination is required to propel is just not my kind of game.
Fitness class? That had to be a euphimica for running miles in the cold and mud. Ballet? I laughed until I cried on that one, and turned the page. Fencing? Oh. sure. I could see the headline: SOPHOMORE SKEWERS SORORITY SENIOR. No thanks.
In the end, I had no choice. A racquetball and aerobics course was the only gym class that hadn't closed. The racquetball part did not thrill me. But I figured, given a ball with enough bounce and a tiny room with four walls, I'd have to hit the ball sometime. As for aerobics, well, at least I wouldn't have to wear a drab gym outfit.
It was after the first day of class when I realized what I had gotten myself into. Instead of exercising to fast music, we would be jogging 3.3 miles in a class period. And the racquetball handbook contained a neat little notice in fine print. "At times, the ball can achieve speeds of 65 mph."
The moment I enter the building, the warm, moist air wraps itself around me like a thick, wet wetel. And the walls, usually painted a hysterically happy yellow, begin to close in on me.
There's something about the gym itself, any gym, that's conducive to nightmares for me. Maybe it's the smell: chlorine, plastic and sweat, with a touch of disinfectant that always reminded me of funus.
Or maybe it's the weight room, which looks like it was designed by Vincent Price. Or the locker room floors, slick next to the showers, so you can fall and break your neck, rough and lint-covered next to the
I considered transferring to trade school.
lockers.
Whatever it is, just going into a gym is a psychological struggle for me. And having to go there first thing in the morning, and be expected to sweat and enjoy it, was asking just a little too much.
Meeting my professor, Mrs. Harold, made me feel a little less anxious. She was a short, stooky woman, about 35, with freckles and a good-natured smile that reminded me of all my other gym teachers.
As she explained the course, she told us that people of all different skill levels were enrolled in the class, and that we would be paired according to our ability. Most of all, Mrs. Haroldo added, she wanted us to have fun.
I should have known. Never trust anyone in a faded, color-coordinated warm-up suit when she tells you to have fun. It carries about the same connotations as a doctor telling his patient to have fun during triple-bypass surgery.
It wasn't hard for Mrs. Harolte to single me out on the first day as the class klutz. As it turned out, I was the
only one in the class who had never had tennis lessons. I couldn't swing the racket properly. I didn't have enough force behind my swing. I didn't keep my eye on the ball and I couldn't hit the ball.
The other girls in the course wore terry cloth headbands that matched their designer sweats, and they lifted weights in their spare time. The guys used their own rackets with names like "The Executioner" and "Pro Destroyer." This was a beginner's course?
However, Mrs. Haroldle was not content to let me blend in with the walls for a semester. Even as I hit the ball on a lucky swing that sent it flying out the observation window, she could tell that I was trying. All she needed to do was have patience with me.
She was going to need a lot. I spent most of the first game flattened against one of the side walls, peering through fishbowl goggles, trying desperately to follow the ball as it careen around the room like some
See KLUTZ, p. 17
KANSAN MAGAZINE/February 13, 1987 13
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