When I was 8, the kids on the block made me their steady catcher.

We lived on a dead end street named Leuce Place, about four houses from the bulb-shaped terminus. Because our street didn’t go anywhere few cars traveled it, so we regularly used the asphalt circle as our playing field. And I don’t think anyone ever suggested a game other than baseball.

After all, we had Roy Campanella’s accident site in our neighborhood. Whitey Ford lived nearby, across the street from one of Mom’s friends, and he taught many of us a bit about pitching. (This was 1958, kids: nine years before the first Superbowl and about three decades before suburban children began playing soccer. And it was asphalt; I hate to think about the injuries we could have incurred if we tried to play other sports there).

I don’t know why they included me. I couldn’t hit the ball. I had okay aim but no power behind my throw. I found the game boring and I don’t remember ever complaining about feeling left out. But someone got the idea of making me steady catcher, it caught on (better than I caught balls), and so it was.

The “steady” did NOT mean “reliable.” It meant “permanent.” No matter which team was up, my job was to stand behind the batter and fetch any ball that wasn’t hit.

I didn’t like the job. I didn’t like the game. I would have felt better not playing at all. But then I would have been considered a poor sport, or suspected of harboring feelings more hurt then they appeared. So I performed as steady catcher.

The other kids had made it clear to me: I wasn’t an athlete. I liked to be in my room, reading, writing, drawing. Even though I walked and biked (enough then and more than many as I got older), my father accused me of being more sedentary than a vegetable. I got it.

But when I was 35, I received a medical “blessing.” That’s an illness or injury serious enough to be scary, but from which you recover and learn. It taught me how important mobility is to me. It started me on a course of daily exercise and an active life.

A year or so after that, I went shopping with my husband for a stationary bike. I wandered the showroom and tried the equipment while John spoke to the sales consultant. I overheard the sales guy refer to me, sincerely, as an athlete.

Wow. First I was surprised to learn I couldn’t play baseball. Then I was astounded to hear I’m an athlete. It just goes to show you:

You shouldn’t take most comments about you too seriously – you know you best; and

You are what you do, whether or not you do it well.