As elementary school progressed, I pretty much accepted the fact that I was bad at sports and would always be picked last. But even the least likely kid on a team can have a moment of greatness.

It was a rainy day. We were inside for gym class, playing kickball. When my turn came, I gave the ball a good, hard kick. Which didn’t mean anything. My hard kicks could end up dribbling a couple of feet with the wobble of a wounded woodchuck, or flying far foul at frightening angles, or occasionally actually going somewhere useful before being scooped up by an infielder and hurled back at me with terrifying force as I huffed toward first base.

But this one went somewhere. Oh, boy, did it go somewhere. It sailed straight over second base. But that wasn’t the end of its glorious trip. It arced all the way across the gym—and then dropped through the basketball hoop on the other side. Swish. Nothing but net.

“Automatic home run,” Mr. Growler said.

I had no clue about this rule, either. But I rounded the bases, which was something I had never done before (and would never do again).

“That’s the first time anyone did that,” Mr. Growler told me.

Wow. I’d done something nobody else had ever done. And, finally, after countless humiliating experiences, I’d had my one small moment of glory in the totally meaningless but unbelievably important world of elementary school sports.