I could never throw overarm. I'm better now but if I try to throw with any force it can go anywhere - from straight to my feet as I just don't let go in time, to any possible tangent other than the intended target.
I was always the last to be picked for football at school. Even after the kids who bunked games because their little finger hurt. I was good at cross-country running which I enjoyed. I actually did enjoy football but I was obviously rubbish at it.
It's malcoordination: my brain just doesn't do things automatically that others' do. I can barely dance unless the music really takes me. I've never really enjoyed it or found it a natural thing to do when listening to most music. I can feel the rhythms and dissect the layers of rhythms and beats in my head in a piece of music and totally immerse myself in it all, but it never translates into anything terpsichorean.
The footballers at school wasted no time in telling me I was crap. I don't recall telling them they were crap at Maths or Art.
Maybe I did. Memories are unreliable.
One time I got huge praise from our games teacher. We were playing 11 a side and I was in defence. I got the ball and saw a good player, called Paul Jepson, in space and hoofed it up the pitch. By chance it landed on his foot and he was able to set up a goal scoring opportunity.
Mr Roberts (and this is games teachers down to a tee) said "I know you all think he's crap, but Geraint got the ball, he looked up, saw Jepson was in space and passed it up there where he was able to play it. That was the best move of the match."
The footballers all murmured and muttered and looked resentfully at me. I basked in my moment of glory.
Years later when I 27 and living back in Wells, I was playing Sunday league football. I didn't really enjoy it as football to me seems to bring out the worst in some people - toxic masculinity. I turned up early for one match and waited in my car.
Another car pulled up - it was Martin Lovell who was a terrific footballer and sportsman. And he recognised me, and laughed.
And he sat there in his car still laughing at me - 11 years after school finished. Time doesn't move on in these small towns.
I wish I'd had his sporting prowess, but I'm equally glad I had none of his charm or interpersonal skills.