Reflexes like a cat, stamina of a young bull and calves cut like diamonds—some have mentioned that I’m quite the athlete. It’s sincerely a shame that my affiliation with the Observer has prevented CHS from experiencing my athleticism in our “Athlete of the Month” section, so I’ve taken it upon myself to inform the masses.
Webster’s Dictionary defines an athlete as “a person who is trained or skilled in exercises, sports, or games requiring physical strength, agility, or stamina.”  Skilled I am, but my raw athleticism cannot be completely displayed by one single activity, instigating a dilemma.
I was even personally complimented by my doctor recently for my graceful baseball slide into the world as a newborn; clearly, my athleticism was a true gift from the start. At the tender age of one, my slow rolling baby crawl quickly developed into a brisk sprint. It was not long before I learned the dire athletic concept of “full speed or no speed” and I still, to this day, struggle to conform to the low gear walking pace demonstrated in CHS halls.
Amidst the hard years of first grade, I took my talent to the MSI soccer field, swiftly becoming the Christiano Ronaldo of the league (haircut and all) as I’d weave through my inept competing defenders on my course to the goal post week after week. My numerous eight-inch golden plastic trophies remain to this day shimmerly on display on my living room mantle.
I’d like to say my true reign of athleticism, however, began in the Jewish Day School gymnasium as an elementary school student being selected first over all the other intense pre-pubescent Jewish competition in all arrays of athletic endeavors. A true warhorse in dodge ball and a stallion in capture the flag, I became well-recognized for my supreme athleticism.
But just like everything (even my outlandishly impressive physical talent), all good things must come to an end, and as I grew and approached the more mature and busy world of high school, it seems I’ve run out of time for my fix of games and activities. Time constraints and lack of sheer room to perform said activities have deprived my recent years. Academics have unfortunately taken the more important role, leaving my new CHS friends severely uninformed about my Usain Bolt-esk athleticism.
There is a bright side, however. This is merely the appetizer to the entrée the freshman physical education classes are soon to be served as I am more closely approaching my senior year, when I can once again reign athletically supreme in my three morning and two afternoon gym classes. The sweatbands will be on and perspiration glands on full alert; the athleticism I’m soon to unleash might even be too impressive to be ignored by the “official” Athlete of the Month section. Warn your young.