Brantford Collegiate Institute and Vocational School - Hello Yearbook (Brantford, Ontario Canada)

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outfit and as a final touch a patch pocket and buttoned belt are added. But somehow this is not my idea of style. Thus my uniform has been subjected to vicious mutilation beginning with the removal of the fashionable buttoned belt and concluding with the dismembering of the wings. Add to this the fact that it has not been properly washed since last Christmas holidays and you can visualize my idea of style. (The latter point is publicly known and it is a frequent jest that my uniform stands up by itself in my locker and that I have to walk it through the halls.) The situation as it stands presently, is not very hopeful. The new routine is a grand feat even for a super athlete. Now I have an unattainable goal. Now I must match this collosal physical achievement handicapped by my own physical incompetence. I am sure we are all born with different capacities for these bodily exercises. Each one develops according to the best of her abilities and no two people are alike in this respect. I have always felt that physical education cannot be classed as another subject we must contend with for it requires a special talent. One who has no talent in the field of art is never compelled to be an artist. Why is it then that one who has no talent in the field of physical training is compelled to be an athlete? Compelled is not too strong a word; physical education is as compulsory as mathematics. If we are incapable of complying with the demands in this field our scholastic average as a whole is affected. A detachment from the force has been assigned to set up nets for the next impending disaster. I glance at the pensive faces surrounding me. Of course, the super athletes still maintain their cool, casual air, unaffected by the tense atmosphere that precedes a test. I have always had a certain sympathy for the Andersons and Browns who simply because of their unfortunate alphabetical positions are the first to undergo these trials. Then it is my turn. Surrounded by the critical eyes of thirty classmates, a singular soul stands alone in her fear and blindly makes her way to the net. The cold stern eyes of the examiner burn through me. My hands are clammy and the ball squirms from my grasp. I feel myself blush and with an embarrassed half-smile, recover the ball. I shoot it straight up ... perfect form ... It lands three feet in front of me. The examiner reminds me that the object of the game is to get the ball over the net and I hear snickers from the super athletes. I have never excelled in volleyball. The rule stating that we must regard these tests with an awesome terror seems ridiculous to me. Why is it necessary to be humiliated in the presence of my friends and foes? For a person of my incapabilities I feel that this method of testing is extremely heartless. Certainly, this public abasement only strengthens my unappreciative attitude towards physical education. Once again the militant blast brings the troop to attention. The instructress informs us that today she has kindly granted us two and one half minutes to get dressed. We file out silently from the gymnasium like chided children but each one is content with the fact that she has performed to the best of her agility. 47

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to the best of my agility a short story by JoAnne Merritt A militant blast brings the troop to attention momentarily. Then they scatter, each to a preordained post. A pair of keenly perceptive eyes inspect the ranks. For a brief moment shock registers in those cold calm eyes and I glance fearfully at my uniform. Oh, I am destined to bear this stain on my reputation for the rest of my life - a stubborn black streak on my left sneaker. I hang my head in shame and embarrassment. The inspectress pronounces my sentence with sadistic delight, Be in the gym area in full uniform by eight a.m. tomorrow morning. The martial aura of physical education classes has never really impressed me. After another shrill blast; the squads disperse. They stand erect and attentive, prepared for the rigorous routine that now confronts them. All eyes turn expectantly to the instructress. I have never quite felt the shining admiration for her that is generally expected. For she stands before me a burly tower of brawn somehow proud of the fact that she has muscles where curves should be. Oddly enough I have never felt that burning desire to someday blossom into this paragon of strength. Truly, I am not the athletic type and have accepted the fact that it would take nothing short of a miracle to change my fate. I have suffered humiliation since childhood with my unsuccessful attempts to gain even a blue ribbon on Play Day . Yet, I must endure the Board of Education ' s futile efforts to bring about this miracle. I admire their persistence. A booming voice echoes through the gymnasium surrounding the statuary figures now at its command. Today, class, we shall complete the volleyball tests and continue with F.M. Ah, fundamental movements — the exercise that I have affectionately and I feel appropriately renamed fairy dancing . The accompanist at the piano strikes up a rapturous chorus of Tip-toe Through the Tulips and sixty arms and legs flail the air hopelessly attempting to keep in time. Yet, the instructress is somehow pleased with our progress. It seems that she utilized this ballet burlesque as part of her infinite efforts to mold these uncoordinated puppets into her own image. Next she chooses someone to demonstrate a new routine. (I have often wondered what unusual and diverse circumstances prevent a personal performance from her.) She selects the performer from the elite clique of super athletes or is it just coincidental and ironic that invariably the Chosen is captain of the volleyball team and cheerleading squad. I guess one just cannot change human nature so I sit back and passively observe the unaltering pattern. A deep bellow explodes from our sergeant and the troop falls into formation. Thirty blue uniforms of all shapes and sizes find their positions without hesitation. I have often pondered the mystery of these uniforms. Who is the diabolical genius credited with their fabrication? He certainly created an inspiration in impractical design! I marvel at the many fashionable details of this garment. Two short sleeves protrude from their seams to give the appearance of wings. The ever popular bloomer effect is created by the elasticized legs of the 46

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undergraduates 11a ROW 1 Peter Ballachey, Susan Beattie, Jane Bewick, Donna Bryson, Janice Chuli, Janice Cuthbert, John Davis, Paul Dzsudzsak, Karen Elcomb, Peter Evans. ROW 2 Derek Flux, Zelia Frazao, Janet Haddow, Sheryl Hampshire, Ed Hamulecki, Monica Harris, Bob Harris, David Henhawk, Margaret Hewson, Bonnie Howard. ROW 3 Joanna Kidd, Heida Kromm, Kathy Litman, Ellen Macaulay, Anita MacKinnon, John Mclntyre, Yolanda Nieuwenhuis, Maurice Pifher, Gerry Robdrup, Bernie Schonbacher. ROW 4 Karen Silverthorn, John Starkey, lllona Vigmond. lib ROW 1 Kirk Beacom, Genevieve Bernacki, Ruth Brown, Blair Clarke, Rina Colaiacovo, Brad Cole, Doug Cranston, Paul Crathern, Diane Davis, Tim Fedoruk. ROW 2 Sylvia Frey, Jennie Fudali, Dave Hunks, Jane Jentz, James Kidd, Rick L ' Heureux, Ted Lojko, Rick McGinley, Stan Morris, Howie Mott. ROW 3 Neil Moulton, Don Oxley, Ian Patterson, Shelagh Rayner, Janie Robbins, Shirley Sheppard, Joanne Snider, Steve Sparks, Sheila Staats, Mary Sukmanowsky. ROW 4 Sue Uptegrove, Eric Verkade, lldiko Zold. ABSENT Dave Baker. ) 4 ' j Cri h? i? ft lie ROW 1 Anne Bannister, Elaine Brown, Debbie Buchanan, Earla Clark, Roxine DeAngelis, Diane Dostal, Jane Dymond, Brenda Ellis, Cheryl Forrest, Julie Gemmel. ROW 2 Nancy Hall, Lana Harris, Karen Jul I, Chris Kilpin, Jo-Ann Kopacka, Susan Lehman, Gayle Linington, Karen Longo, Cathy Macaulay, Heather Maich. ROW 3 Joanne Mills, Judy Nemeth, Lori Patis, Mary Prokopiec, Brenda Ray, Jill Rogers, Anna Vallentin. ABSENT Gwen Bucholtz. R i. -. LI 48