A lifetime ago, we attended the Air Guitar Championships. There was exactly one girl who was a contender. She had it all: the snarl, the reckless abandon, a mean air technique. She was going into the final round, rocking it out, and bringing the house down. At the end of her performance, the crowd was going wild, she was strutting around the stage, grinning from ear to ear. And then, as if in slow motion, she raised both hands above her head and sort of twinkled her fingers. The crowd gasped and drew back. “Cheerleader,” one of them said. And just like that, everyone went silent and headed for the bar.
San Francisco was always picked last for kickball.