When I was in the sixth grade, Sister Denise threw me out of choir. Not because I misbehaved, which I NEVER did, but because I couldn’t sing. Up until that moment, I didn’t know I couldn’t sing. Though I don’t remember the occasion or the song, I do remember the moment of the good sister’s final judgment. We were all gathered in the office. Sister Denise had set up a microphone, and we were to sing a song over the intercom, so the entire school could hear. We practiced just once before we went live. That’s when she gently pushed me away to stand behind all the other choir members.

I wasn’t the smartest little Catholic in the room, but I could take a hint. So I dropped out of choir and pretty much never sang again unless I was alone in a remote place, like the woods or a beach or a dungeon. Even at birthday parties, I barely mouthed the words while others hardily sang “Happy Birthday.”

So dashed were my dreams of becoming an opera singer, singing the National Anthem at a major league baseball game, or sharing a mic with The Boss.

At St. Mary’s School, I also learned I couldn’t play baseball. The girls played baseball during recess, and I was always picked last when sides were chosen. The best players were strong farm girls who grew up with brothers. I’m the oldest of four sisters, and we didn’t play baseball at home, except once when Aunt Christine came to visit. We loved watching her round the bases wearing her cute, black business dress, black pumps, and pearls. Aunt Christine was a blast. Anyway, instead of playing baseball in the backyard, we occupied our time with Herman’s Hermits fan club, which we set up in the washhouse. That was fun, but it did nothing for my athletic prowess.

Playing with the girls at St. Mary’s, I rarely made contact with the ball; and if I did, I never made it to base. I left the field humiliated every time. So dashed were my dreams of pitching for the Yankees.

But I did become a Marathon runner, so that sort of makes up for it. And I sing while I’m running—ha, ha, Sister Denise.

If you enjoy these blog posts, please share. Except for my family, the names in these essays are sometimes changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty), and I’ve embellished a little.

Watch for Growing Up Catholic in a Small Texas Town Part 7: July 15th.