No one believes I am athletic.

I am banged up, with a seriously swollen digit, a kneecap that after four weeks is still annoyed with me for allowing a foot to kiss it and there is an upside-down, wheel-less bicycle in my living room.

Yet still, people snicker at my claims of athleticism.

The truth is, while I am fit, I am not currently what anyone would consider athletic. All my life, I have had an aversion (read: bottomless insecurity) to team sports. In high school, I was tall, painfully thin and awkward. I was, literally, the last one picked. And then I stood from the ball as possible. My attempts were feeble, and ducking my best move.

The fact that I am now involved in a weekly child/parent kickball game is a feat that few can truly understand.

The fact that I have actually caught the ball, scoring an automatic out, is a mini miracle. But my high school self apparently wants me back in line, and off the field. She was the one who caught the ball more than two weeks ago, moving her finger precisely so that the ball jammed it.

It was my pinkie.

It hurt. And I whined and showed it to a fellow player. At that point, it looked minor. The next day, half my hand was swollen and colorful with purple and blue bruises.

When I still couldn't bend my pinkie two weeks later, I became alarmed. And secretly, thrilled. Never in my life have I suffered a broken bone. At 42, playing my first team sport, it was time. Such an injury would make me an athlete, a member of the sacred club for which I have never passed muster.

The X-ray showed no fractures. I was keenly disappointed.

But the doctor acknowledged it would not heal without some special attention. Nothing so glorious as a cast, or even an anti-inflammatory. Medication, while not as good as a break, would underline the seriousness of the whole affair. Instead, she advised me to stop by Walgreen's and pick up a finger splint.

The splint is a large, vertical piece of shiny, silver metal with a split at the bottom. Cushioned by a thick pad of spongy material, the finger slides neatly inside the splint. The instructions - all of two sentences - suggested taping it for added security. Untaped, it comes off with a pull. That seemed far too simple for my sports injury. Tape. Definitely tape.

I tried Scotch. Then I decided that looked worse than nothing, and pried it off.

Tape or no tape, the splint did the trick. Finally, people noticed. People wanted to talk to me about my finger. I was elated - until I saw their reactions.

The clerk at Wal-Mart brightened when she saw the splint. Here was a conversation piece! A breath of fresh air from the constant weather patter!

"What happened?" she asked, furrowing her brow with concern.

"Oh," I said, my tone carefully nonchalant. "I jammed it."

"How?" Now she sounded alarmed.

"Kickball," I said.

"Oh." Her tone was suddenly flat, the sweet note of sympathy now absent.

I tried to redeem myself.

"It happened two weeks ago, and still wasn't healing right," I said.

She was silent.

"That's a long time," I added.

Now she looked annoyed, anxious to be ride of me.

"Yeah," she said, handing me the receipt, her eyes and dull now as they'd been before she'd spied my splint. "Well, take care."

And so it went. At the gas station. The grocery store. An outing downtown with friends.

Raised brows followed by rolled eyes.

I tried to spice the story up with a little humor. "No one told me you were supposed to use your feet in kickball," I'd throw in brightly. The smiles that elicited were merely polite.

Why, I wondered, was a fracture worth so much more emotion than a sprain? I felt like Rodney Dangerfield.

Saturday, I apparently made one last, subconscious attempt to stake a claim on athleticism. I fell off my bike.

It was a gorgeous day and I'd set out from home with the intent to ride for about an hour. Ten minutes into the ride, a strong wind came up, blowing sand into my eyes and making it generally tough to ride. This was not part of my planned interlude. I turned around. On the way back, I cut through the parking lot of an empty office building. It was beautifully constructed, with multi-colored tiles leading the way to the entrance. I rode around the front, admiring it, and looked up too late to see that the tiles were not all on one level.

My feet were securely fastened into my clipless pedals. (Clipless pedals -- now clearly that's an indication of an athlete, right?!) I didn't even try to escape them. Instead, I watched myself fall. Down, sideways and off. My thigh broke part of my fall, my splint the rest. I reached out for the sidewalk, and the splint absorbed some of the shock that would otherwise surely have ripped up my arm!

I dusted myself off and looked at my hand. The shiny silver splint now bore a series of scratches.

At that day's holiday picnic, I displayed the splint to the first person who asked. "What did you do?"

I spoke without thinking. "I jammed it playing kickball and then I dinged up the splint when I fell of my bike this morning. Amazing, huh?"

He looked at me with poorly disguised pity with an aftertaste of disgust. Too late, I realized how incredibly clumsy the whole thing made me sound.

"Yeah," he said, trying to hide an eye roll as he turned away. "That would be the word."