David McElroy

It was about eight years ago. I was dating a woman who lived in North Carolina at the time. One day, I got a sweet and loving card from her in my mailbox, which I appreciated.

The next day, I got another one. For many days, the post office delivered another card from her. I don’t remember how many there were, but it was something like eight or nine. Great, right? It was a sweet and loving gesture from a thoughtful woman.

But I didn’t see it that way. I was a fool, because I chose to interpret something through the lens of my own thoughts and practices. I was an idiot.

Let me explain.

At some point early in the procession of daily cards, I noticed that each envelope had a tiny number written in a corner of the back. They were in order, so I quickly surmised that she had bought all the cards at once and written them all at once. She had done the whole project and numbered each envelope so she would know which to send when.

Great, right?

Now this is where I have to ask you not to judge me too harshly, because I’m embarrassed — humiliated, actually — to admit the way I reacted.

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I didn’t grow up playing sports. When I was younger, we moved around way too much for me to be anywhere long enough to learn a sport.

Besides, I gravitated toward the kids who weren’t so likely to be athletes. As I became more of the stereotypical nerdy brainiac by junior high school, it was easy to simply say that I disliked sports, because I could lump the jocks into a group and paint them with a very broad (and unfair) brush as idiots. I didn’t know much about sports and I was pretty disdainful of those who played.

My first real interest in high school sports came when I was editor of my high school newspaper and my own school’s team had a storybook year. The Walker Vikings lost the first game of the year, but they didn’t lose again until the Alabama state championship final in the largest size classification at the time. Even then, though, I was seeing it from the perspective of a student inside his own school. I didn’t see the bigger picture.

It wasn’t until I started working at a newspaper during college that I developed a love for football and basketball. High school sports mattered in the communities we served, so I wrote hundreds of stories about football and basketball — and shot pictures in many dimly lit gyms and many tiny stadiums. Many of those games were in tiny communities where those schools — and pride in their teams — was a big part of holding the community together.

On Friday nights, I might drive to a couple of games, staying long enough at each to get pictures and a feel for the game. Afterward, I’d talk to coaches on the phone, getting quotes from men who were excited about wins and from others who were heartbroken and frustrated about losses. Although I might attend a game or two in person, I would also write another few game stories for games I’d never seen, just based on quotes and stats from coaches.

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I was working at my desk on a recent Saturday afternoon when I noticed two cat ears poke above the surface of the desk. Then there were two intense little green eyes staring at me.

Bessie and her sister, Molly, are feral girls who I took in about seven years ago. They’re both tiny, weighing slightly less than five pounds. Bessie has only three legs and she’s never gotten over the fears she brought with her from that early life on the streets.

She runs if I get too close. It’s an ordeal if I have to touch her for medication or flea treatment. If I’m able to catch her to pick her up, I can feel her tiny heart beating very fast with fear.

Every now and then, it seems as though Bessie might get over some of her fears and trust me, at least a little. This was one of those times. She was sticking her tiny head over the edge of my desk and she seemed to be thinking of coming up onto the desk to see me.

She just stood there, though, and watched me.

Although I was able to snap a quick picture, she decided the risk was too great to trust me. She jumped back down and left the scary human alone. That wasn’t going to be the day when she got over her fears and took the chance of trusting me.

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