My son the athlete

At five and a half months old, little Oliver has become mobile.  While the little guy cannot yet crawl very far, he has begun rolling up and down our carpet. On one occasion, he rolled from his mother over to his father, just to share a smile and then roll back. He loves to move.

This has led many to believe that my son will be athletic, or at the very least, coordinated. He is energetic, strong, and remarkably fast. The guy has been holding his own bottle for a couple months. Great hands.
But no, my child will not be athletic. Although he may eventually share my passion for sports, he will also likely share my utter lack of athleticism.
I am a terrible athlete. I tried fixing this for years, but all my efforts were fruitless.  Milk didn’t do this body any good. Being allergic to several nutritious substances has not helped. Exercise was only effective when I managed to not hurt myself.
I managed to disguise my lack of athletic prowess with charm. In grad school, I joined a talented intramural softball squad, and it quickly became obvious that I was an integral part of the team.  They needed me. I talked a lot of trash, used the term “wheelhouse” as much as possible, and I brought an extra glove so they would let me play. It was a good time. I particularly enjoyed it when we got to play against real athletes. One guy chose to play with his shirt off, likely because his torso was built in a lab somewhere and he wanted to show us the achievements of modern science. This dude took sports seriously, so I doubt he was all that happy when I came running around first wearing a pink helmet while yelling “he put it in my wheelhouse!”
This is not necessarily Oliver’s future. He might be one hell of an athlete.  But he might also want to work on his charm, just in case. Good luck, Ollie.