Before long, those who lacked talent yet were tempted to play baseball or softball, in particular, would feel the subtle sting of discontent from their fellows. First off, they'd be among the last chosen out of the total group, by a team leader. Then, team members would be assigned positions: first base, shortstop, center field.

Players who were known or presumed to be especially inept might even find themselves assigned to what sounded like a new position on the field: Left Out. Hint: "Out" did not stand for outfield. Even if such an ousting didn't occur in reality, you could be sure the other players were thinking in that direction.

Singer Janis Ian described the phenomenon especially cogently in the lyrics to her 1975 ballad, Seventeen, recalling the pain of inevitably being one of "those whose names were never called when choosing sides for basketball."

Most people develop their sporting skills in school – sometime during their educational years, if not before. For me, it was the opposite. School is what ruined me for sports. Although I probably wouldn't have become a big fan or a skilled participant anyway, school turned me into a devoted non-sporting person.

Not even swimming or auto racing took my fancy, whether as a spectator or participant. As a result, I've long been one of the few professional auto writers who has no interest whatsoever in motorsports.

As a kid, playing on the early postwar streets of working-class Chicago, I was adequate at games and impromptu sports. Never excellent, or even good; but tolerable. Playing softball in the street, where a parked 1938 Dodge might serve as first base, no one ever cringed or complained when I showed up, as far as I can recall. I might not be their top choice for a hastily-assembled team, but the other kids didn't shun me, either.

As soon as semi-organized teams became the rule at James G. Blaine grammar school, a block away from our apartment, everything changed. Suddenly, the class was split – informally but firmly – into those who performed well, versus those who did not. Since it quickly became clear that I wasn't adept enough to be among the first chosen when picking sides for softball, basketball, or any other "ball" (soccer was seldom seen or played in those days), I was relegated to the ranks of the also-rans. Or, more accurately, never-rans.

Now, as they chose their teams, I and several other athletic incompetents would remain standing there at the end, like left-behind idiots, unwanted by either side and accepted only with great reluctance.

For most boys, pickup games were fun; but for sports incompetents, all games were torture. Whether they were organized or not, played with friends or strangers, the distress and humiliation differed little.

Grammar-school sports were nothing compared to the tortures of gym class in high school. The very idea of going to gym class every day was so abhorrent to me that, during my first two years in high school, I opted for ROTC instead. Yes, the Reserve Officers Training Corps. I, who would later become an anti-war protester during the Vietnam era and, later yet, the Iraq War of 2003. After four semesters of that intense military training, under the supervision of some upper-level students who were obviously born to be officers, I decided that even gym class couldn't be this bad.

Some high schools focus on football. Baseball is the big thing at others. At Lane Tech High, basketball was the centerpiece of everything athletic. During every P.E. (physical education) class, half the group would play first, while the other half sat in the spectator seats. (This was a large high school with 4,000 students, so the groups in gym class were quite sizable.)

Those of us who were petrified and/or angered by the thought of playing, knowing we would be humiliated one way or another, quickly devised a way to avoid hitting the court at all. When the whistle blew, the first group made its way to the spectator seats, clearing the path for the second group to play for the remainder of the period. Rather than leap into action like our sporting cohorts, our motley crew of incompetents somehow managed &ndash by employing rigorous, innovative techniques to make ourselves virtually invisible to the coaches – to blend into the mob of returning players.

Moments later, we'd be taking our seats as if we'd just finished a strenuous session out on the court. If called upon, when an excessively observant coach was in charge, we might even exhibit a touch of perspiration, backed by a sigh of physical relief, conveying the image of a game well played, with a well-deserved and rewarding rest to follow.

Teachers and coaches knew this was happening, and warned us repeatedly that such antics would not be tolerated. Their words and pleas were futile. We were simply too good at making that transition from outgoing to incoming. We might be worthless with any kind of ball in our hands, but we ranked as all-stars in the quest for avoidance.

Now and then, one or two of us would be trapped, unable to return to our favored seats for a second phase of relaxation, to prepare for the rest of the academic day that awaited. Horrors! We'd have to get out on the court and look like we were playing intently, while actually making a bold attempt to steer clear of that basketball for the next 15 minutes or so. Should someone pass the ball in our direction, we knew just how to avoid having to try and catch it, without looking like we were shirking our sporting duty.

Note: This chapter is intentionally incomplete at this point, intended to serve as a sample.