A bunch of us guys were sitting around the office this morning, on one of our many unauthorized coffee breaks, discussing the more macho topics of the world, including how much tarragon to use in chicken peppercini; how much we adored Winona Ryder in "Little Women"; and whether Bob's sweater went with his shoes. Just kidding. We were talking sports. In particular, Superbowl XLII, where the New York Giants squeaked by the New England Patriots by a score of 17-14. An exciting game, to say the least.

I'd like to congratulate the underdog Giants and to personally thank Eli Manning for reminding me that I have a coronary condition. I'd also like to say that the Patriots put up a good fight, even though Tom Brady was sacked more than the apples at the A&P checkout.

I guess the point that I'm trying to make is I like sports, but only to the point to where I'm interested if the local teams are having a winning season. From there, my mind starts to wander.

The reason I'm not an easy-chair-sittin', beer-sippin', cigar-smokin', feet-on-the-Ottoman-restin' sports fanatic stems from my school days and my infinite dislike of gym class.

In school, I was convinced that the cooler you were, the more coordinated you were. I was not cool. I was the one who, when it came time to choose up sides to play games, didn't get picked until everyone else got picked, and that included Bobby Taylor's dog.

Team Captain #1: You've got Megill.

Team Captain #2: I don't want him. I'll take that shrub over there.

(Not what one would call a real confidence builder.)

Gym class was always a nightmare for me. I remember, in junior high school, we were playing baseball and I got stuck out in right field. That's where they always stick the bad players, because it's unlikely that a ball would make it that far. You often see right fielders, out there, playing solitaire on the ground, or cooking a steak over an open flame.

Anyway, it was the bottom of the ninth, two outs and all our team had to do was get this last guy out. Unfortunately, it was Tony DeGrassi, an eighth grade mutant with a pituitary problem who, as you might have guessed, hit a high, fly ball right to me.

In the movies, I would have shown great fear on my face as I stuck my glove in the air, and with beads of perspiration pouring down from my forehead, have the ball land in my glove. Well, that's exactly what I did... except the ball landed ten feet behind me.

The other team scored three runs and won the game. My team showed their appreciation for my vigilant effort by shouting unusual and creative names at me. Many of them not fit for publication in this column.

The scene in the locker room was even more devastating with laughing, more name calling and being on the receiving end of some humiliating towel-snapping. Even Mr. Talbot, my gym teacher, who always used to call me "Magilla Gorilla", joined in the fun. I couldn't have felt any worse.

I did the only thing I knew I could do to make myself feel a little better and justified. While everyone was in the showers, I grabbed as many unlocked combination locks off the lockers, switched them around and locked them.

I can still remember walking down the hall to my next class and seeing Mr. Talbot running down the hall, in the opposite direction, mumbling under his breath and carrying a large set of bolt cutters.