"Get up! Get up! We've got this!" I screamed, suddenly realizing everyone else had grown quiet.  I glanced around to see people staring at me with a look of disgust. My mother-in-law was seventy-eight years old. Okay, I admit it, my first reaction should have been one of concern, and it probably would have been a nice gesture to make a move to help her up. But how did I know perhaps touching my teammate wouldn't get us disqualified?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm too competitive. Well I wasn't always that way, in fact, I was the opposite. I'd always assumed when they were handing out the competitive gene, I was in another line getting seconds of sensitivity or irritating humour.

It's not that I never competed. Track and field and team sports were mandatory in school. I won countless ribbons for running and high jump, however it wasn't due to my competitive nature.  I loved to run and could run fast. I could jump and jump high. It helped that I had legs that went all the way to my armpits.

I wasn't much into team sports. I hated basketball mainly because, being tall, everyone expected me to be good and I wasn't.  I dreaded volleyball. Teammates would yell, 'call it!' and when I did they'd dive in front of me anyway. Pretty good at flag football and floor hockey, I was a girly-girl and still felt out of my element. I remember once after I scored two goals, the captain came over raised his hands in the air then turned them over in front of me, waiting for me to do something. I felt awkward, so I just looked at him and said, "I don't do that."

It wasn't only in sports I lacked the competitive gene. When we got assignments back everyone would run around asking, "What did you get?" I'd turn my paper over and reply, "I did okay." Always a straight A student, I didn't want to stand out. I didn't need a shrink to tell me where that feeling stemmed from. It began with my kindergarten class photo; tall for my age, I was the only girl in the back row with all the boys. All I wanted was to blend in.

They say opposites attract and that was the case when I met my husband. He had enough of the competitive gene for both of us. He excelled at sports and loved competing at anything. He didn't mind the limelight and was very much in it, working as a television news reporter.

We'd only been dating a short time when I was invited to spend Christmas Day with his family. We ended up getting storm-stayed for three days. It became obvious that his entire family had the competitive gene. They loved to play games.

On my second day of captivity, I snuck in a phone call to my mother and pleaded, "For the love of God get me out of here. They're not done playing one game and someone's asking what we should play next."  Trivial Pursuit, cards, darts; the fun never ended. For someone lacking the competitive gene, it was three days of hell.

When we had children, years later, it became obvious my daughter was following in her father's footsteps. He encouraged her competitive nature early on when trying to get her to eat dinner. "I bet I can beat you at cleaning my plate," he'd challenge her. Never a fan of the game, I was sure they'd develop ulcers from eating too quickly.

When she became a competitive swimmer my husband would tell her to go kick some butt, whereas I would tell her to have fun. Although I was thrilled when she 'kicked butt' all the way to the national level, I was equally thrilled when she got out of the pool and her opponents ran to hug and congratulate her. She managed to have a killer competitive instinct, but in such a good-natured way even her rivals couldn't fault her. When she played basketball it was great when she scored, but even better when she passed the ball around. I liked the camaraderie of sports, not the competitiveness, and I always cheered for the underdog.

I knew when my son decided to play hockey I was going to have to dig deep to find some competitive spirit. I'd heard hockey parents took the game very seriously. My son was just four years old and could barely stand up on the ice, let alone skate. Once at a practice, like dominos, one child fell then they all fell. They squirmed and wiggled trying to stand up in all their hockey gear. It was priceless. I glanced towards two mothers in the stands next to me and smiled, just as one started shouting obscenities at the coach. He was wasting time, not getting the kids to their feet quickly enough.  I knew at that point I wasn't going to have what it took to be a hockey mom. My son completed the season, but chose to hang up his skates. I couldn't say I was disappointed.

Years later, my husband and I were asked to fill in for a couple in a volleyball league. It took some persuading but I finally agreed, once they assured me it was strictly for fun and not competitive.

The night of our first game we were lacing up our shoes and I couldn't help but notice a couple doing some serious stretching in the corner. Then one by one others arrived wearing sweatbands, kneepads and elbow pads. I was starting to get nervous but took my place on the court, front and centre. We began to play, and the guy directly across from me proceeded to 'stuff' the ball down my throat almost every time. When it was his turn to serve, he'd serve directly to me, grinning the whole time. I made a move to return it but a bull-bitchin' broad on our team dove in front of me yelling, "Call it!"

It was at that moment memories of school came flooding back, and that's when it happened. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I started to get hot. I began to breathe heavier. I was tired of people being in my face, and in my space, it was a game for God's sake!

More than anything I wanted to wipe the smug look off that guy's face, and put the bull bitchin' chick in her place. Suddenly I was screaming 'mine' at the top of my lungs, diving for the ball, and making every serve count. I was on fire, and suddenly realized I was loving the thrill of competition!

Our volleyball career ended when the couple we were filling in for returned. But friends have since built a beach volleyball court. When they throw parties, I've been known to disappear, round up a few people and have a game (black cocktail dress and bare feet) sometimes at three in the morning. Their teenage children will come home with friends after a night out, and challenge us to a game.

On my last birthday, I was presented with my own personal volleyball, signed by my friends. It travels with me, because you just never know when a volleyball game might break out!

For whatever reason it took years for me to discover my competitive gene. Judging by my performance at the family reunion last year, all I need to do now is learn to 'channel' it.

You'll be happy to know my mother-in-law recovered from her fall. This year's reunion is only a couple of months away and if she's been doing the drills I've given her, I'm sure we'll have the relay in the bag!

Not that winning matters to me of course . . .

Brianna Popsickle

Observations and reflections on life, and the people around me; written as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, and neighbour.

Artist. Writer. Woman. - Struggling to re-appear after years of confinement in a suburban prison.

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