It isn’t just football. I’m a lousy quarterback, but at least I make the ball go from my desk to the next. Hand me a baseball or tennis ball, and my shortcomings become even more pronounced — every toss longer than a few feet becomes a grounder. I’m not asking to be Pedro or Clemens or even Rich Garces. I just want to throw as well as I shoot pool — I stink at it but look damned good in the process. I have fun and don’t have to fake an arm injury to avoid ridicule.

The ball we use at work is pretty misshapen, so even the former hockey star and high-school linebacker occasionally have trouble throwing it. My trouble is far more constant. So I study others to see what they’re doing differently. I analyze and then I over-analyze and then I get self-conscious and then I manage to hit doorjambs and groins instead of the intended receiver. So I try not to think at all: I just go with the flow and do what comes naturally. But what comes naturally is throwing like a girl, and then we’re back to where we started: in hell.

Sometimes I put the blame on sore muscles I got from working out. Sometimes I laugh it off. Truth is, I’ll say just about anything to avoid being excluded entirely. The only thing worse than somebody wanting to play catch with me is nobody wanting to play catch with me. I already miss out on good bonding time by not smoking; I can’t afford this.

At least I can now bond with my fellow males by talking about sports, which was not the case six years ago. Knowing that I grew up at a loss for how to communicate with other guys, some college friends decided to educate me about sports, and I’ve never looked back. Now I talk trash, offer opinions, play in the office pool, consistently lose in the office pool, and scour ESPN.com religiously. But I’m literally all talk. I’ve avoided the company softball team for as long as I’ve worked at a company with a softball team. What I like to pretend they don’t know is that the biggest contribution I can make to their team is not participating.

MY SELF-DEPRECATION on this score is backed up by years of painfully acquired experience. When I played softball at summer camp, the coaches sent me to the outfield and I walked off crying, crushed that they’d sent me “out of the field.” A few years later, I played youth soccer and got more excited about oranges at halftime than about the game itself. In junior high, I had my defining athletic moment playing youth basketball. During a game of shirts and skins, I happened upon the ball, panicked, and looked for the first shirt I saw. Then I passed to the referee.

As a kid, I had a great relationship with my dad, but it was built around sedentary activities — we spent more time watching Marx Brothers movies than playing catch. The neighborhood kids were either much older or lived too far away for me to play with, and my younger sister wasn’t a tomboy (yet she was still better at soccer). But when I was growing up, I liked who I was. It’s now that I wish I’d spent more time playing baseball than playing clarinet. It would be more useful around the office.

I still like who I am, but I’d also like to be able to throw a ball back and forth without eliciting snickers. I strive for anonymity in sports — I want only to be good enough that nobody notices. A few years ago at our company picnic, just when I’d faded comfortably into my surroundings, my girlfriend decided she wanted to toss the football around. With me. I sort of held my own. She was smiling, I was throwing, all was right with the world. Then one of my more socially inept bosses remarked rather loudly, “Wow, she throws better than you!” I gave my two weeks’ notice on the spot.

Sexual double standards usually concern the awful things men get away with or the institutional advantages accorded to males; but the flip side is the complete pass females get in sports. Girls don’t have to be athletic to earn the respect of their peers, and throwing like a girl is okay if you are a girl. Sure, women have to deal with lesser wages for the same jobs, live up to impossible beauty standards, and get through that whole pregnancy thing. But they don’t have to suffer the indignity of being laughed at for throwing badly. They have it easy.

THERE’S A second ball in the office now. It’s a solid Nerf, but everyone prefers the misshapen ball. My girlfriend gave me some pointers in how to use it, so now I throw just as inaccurately, but look more awkward while doing so. My movements are almost robotic.

Or maybe not. Just the other day, one of my bosses looked around at everyone and picked me to throw the ball to. It was a sign of acceptance, that I was just one of the guys. Unfortunately, he didn’t spot me the “Think fast!” and so I saw the ball only in my peripheral vision. Innate reflex took over and I swatted it away like an NBA center; it bounced off the ground and hit someone in the arm.

Well, it could have been worse. I could have caught it and had to throw it back.

Dan Tobin dances like a boy and can be reached at DanTobinDanTobin@hotmail.com.