I always considered myself a pretty good athlete.

Not great, but coordinated.

Good hand-eye coordination, quick reflexes.

Ping pong, oh yeah. Not a great serve, but pretty good defense. Could play with anyone, but usually lost to the good ones.

I played soccer in college. I was a walk-on, never having played in my life, having no skills. I made the team, became a starter, but only because I liked the running. My Greek teammate, Tasso, can tell you how bad I was. But on defense, I was irritating as all get out. I scored one goal. My teammates jokingly called it “a banana kick.”

Same in basketball, what I lacked in natural ability, I tried to make up for with pesky defensive tactics.

I didn’t win much, so I learned how to lose, and still love to play.

Baseball, good infielder, decent on base percentage, stole some bases, usually second place or lower. Once I made all stars. My family vacation was during the all star tournament, so I never played in an all star game. I never hit a home run. A few triples though. I dreamed of playing for the Yankees.

I was a good student, graduated third. Not vale- or saluta-. Third. No speech for me. I was kind of relieved.

I guess what I am trying to say, I wasn’t the best at anything.

The Smothers Brothers used to sing a song, “Mediocre Dull Fred.” (I don’t know why I thought of that.)

You know what, though?

I do a pretty great me.

Something else?

God couldn’t love me any more than He does right now!

That’s pretty good, yeah?