The Tall Kid

The Tall Kid

I was the tall kid.

Trust me.

It’s not nearly as glamorous as basketball coaches make it sound.

Childhood isn’t designed for long-legged people.

Take the little blue plastic swimming pool.

By the time I sat down, there was just enough water left to wash a beagle.

The slide wasn’t much better.

It wasn’t a slide.

It was more of a speed bump.

Then there was my bicycle.

I had to learn to ride in a hurry because my knees had already declared war on the handlebars.

I don’t recollect exactly how old I was when my daddy bought me a Shetland pony.

I climbed on, and that little horse calmly walked right out from under me.

Didn’t buck.

Didn’t kick.

Just quietly resigned from the job.

The worst part of being the tall kid wasn’t the growing.

It was hearing every grown woman in Union County say,

“My goodness, haven’t you grown!”

As if I’d been sneaking Miracle-Gro on my cornbread.

Looking back, I guess it all worked out.

I’m still awkward getting into sports cars…

…but I haven’t needed a step stool in forty years.