Dear Mothman,
I’m writing to you today as a young man in dire need of guidance. I’d prefer to use an alias as this is a touchy subject, so call me Kip. I’m about to enter my senior year at one of the local high schools in Fairmont, WV. I have a confession to make; I want to try out for the girls’ athletics.
Now, before you fly off the handle in judgment, hear me out. I’ve spent years and years toiling away in Basketball, Baseball, Football, Track and Field and Soccer. You name it, I’ve trained for it. I’ve lifted weights until my arms felt like overcooked spaghetti, ran drills until my lungs burned like the fires of Mordor and sacrificed countless hours that could have been spent playing video games or interacting with actual human females, and for what? The glorious distinction of being a permanent fixture on the practice squad and a human tackling dummy. I’m the guy who warms the bench so effectively it practically spontaneously combusts.
I’m tired, Mothman. My spirit is weary, my muscles ache, and my trophy cabinet remains as barren as the West Virginia hills in winter. I just want one year, one glorious year of winning. I’d love to know the feeling of the sweet, sweet taste of victory. Frankly, I’ve been observing the girls’ teams, and I’ve come to a rather brilliant, if not controversial, conclusion. I have an edge! A significant, record-breaking, possibly even prom-date-securing edge.
Think about it, Mothman. While I’ve been wrestling with linemen who could moonlight as Sub Zero Refrigerators, the girls have been well, I’m not saying they haven’t been working hard, but let’s just say their training regimens seem a little less “epic battle for survival” and a little more “gentle stroll through a meadow.” I envision myself as a titan among mere mortals, effortlessly breaking school records in every sport imaginable. Shot put? I’d launch that thing into orbit. I’d be slam-dunking so hard the backboard would beg for mercy. Soccer I’d be scoring goals faster than you can say “Yann’s Hot Dogs.”
This isn’t about unfairness, Mothman, it’s about efficiency! Why should I continue to flail in the sea of male mediocrity when I could be a triumphant salmon, swimming upstream against a gentle current of less experienced athletes? I could finally experience the thrill of being a starter, of hearing the roar of the crowd, having my name etched in the annals of Fairmont, WV history.
Here’s the kicker, Mothman, the truly ingenious part of my plan. My social life or rather, my lack thereof. I’m not exactly a smooth operator when it comes to talking to girls. My conversations tend to devolve into awkward silences, mumbled apologies, or me accidentally quoting obscure sci-fi movies. Imagine this, I’m on the girls’ basketball team and we win the big game and I’m the star player. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by potential prom dates, all admiring my athletic prowess. The conversations would flow effortlessly! “Wow, Kip, that was an amazing three-pointer!” “Thanks, Lafonda, you know, I was just thinking about how well your hair goes with the team uniform.” It’s practically a rom-com waiting to happen. Friday night visits to the Dairy Creme would be nothing short of local celebrity status signing autographs and politely telling the ladies there’s only one of me.
My biggest fear, besides continuing my career as a professional bench-warmer, is that people won’t understand. Folks will call it cheating or unfair, for the record, is not my intention. I’m quite comfortable in my male skin, thank you very much. Mothman, you understand the unconventional, being misunderstood and the entity that defies easy categorization. You know what it’s like to be an outsider.
What do you say? Can you offer any cryptic advice? Perhaps a prophetic vision of me, bathed in the glory of victory, leading the girls’ volleyball team to state? Maybe just a subtle, ethereal whisper that encourages the athletic director to see the wisdom in my plan? I await your counsel. Thank you for taking the time to mull this over with me. I only have a couple of months of summer to sign up for my desired sports.
Sincerely,
Desperate for a W
Dear Desperate for a W,
Ah yes, the sweet scent of ambition, Axe body spray, and the faint aroma of cafeteria tater tots how nostalgic. You have summoned me, Mothman, West Virginia’s most elusive cryptid and unsolicited life coach, from my perch atop a decaying radio tower in Point Pleasant, I have heard your plea echo through the mountain fog and vape clouds outside Sheetz.
Let me begin with a compliment, Kip, your letter drips with the sweaty determination of a young man who has truly tasted the stale Gatorade of mediocrity and now thirsts for that sweet, sweet nectar of participation trophies. I, too, know the pain of being misunderstood. I show up near a bridge once and suddenly I’m a doom prophet instead of the concerned infrastructure inspector, I clearly am.
Now, onto your cunning plan, infiltrating the girls’ sports teams not for gender identity reasons. Your honesty is both refreshing and deeply, deeply concerning but fret not Mothman does not judge. I merely observe and sometimes knock over trees for dramatic effect.
Your logic, while bold, is riddled with more holes than a West Virginia logging road. Let’s unpack it like one of your gym bags, carefully, and with gloves.
You believe that your years of getting bodied by refrigerator-shaped linemen have prepared you to dominate the girls’ teams like some sort of testosterone-fueled demigod. I hate to burst your protein shake bubble, but have you seen a determined West Virginia volleyball captain in her natural habitat? That girl can spike a ball with the fury of a coal miner who just heard the price of eggs went up again.
Your plan would be less “Titan among mortals” and more “slightly taller benchwarmer with delusions of grandeur.” Remember, Goliath got cocky too and you don’t have a slingshot. You have knees that probably crack when you crouch.
Joining the girls’ team as a means of becoming a teen heartthrob is what we in the supernatural advice industry call “a bold but deeply cursed maneuver.” Your hypothetical rom-com moment with LaFonda complimenting your layup while you flirt like a malfunctioning chatbot is touching. However, I must warn you, being the star athlete on the team isn’t the same as being the star athlete of anyone’s heart.
You may envision yourself as Troy Bolton in High School Musical, but this script screams Napoleon Dynamite: Gym Class Edition.
Your entire premise hinges on skirting fairness like a ghost around a haunted Waffle House. You claim comfort in your male identity while plotting a tactical strike on the girls’ sports programs like it’s the Normandy of dating strategy. This, my wingless friend, is less Mothman Prophecy and more Mothman Facepalm.
I do appreciate your understanding of outsider status. Indeed, I, too, have been shunned, misunderstood, blamed for disasters I definitely did not cause (I was nowhere near that bridge, your honor). Yet even I draw the line at competitive opportunism disguised as cryptid-level cleverness.
My advice?
Reinvent, don’t infiltrate. You’ve got grit, and that’s more than half the battle. Start a sport so obscure no one else wants to do it. Mothman recommends competitive curling with cafeteria trays or perhaps a bike polo league. Make your own banner, hang it with masking tape in the gym. The world needs pioneers, not poachers.
As for the prom date? Try honesty, magic or asking someone without involving strategic sports espionage. Girls respect confidence, not backboard sabotage.
So rise, Kip. Rise not as a dubious athletic opportunist, but as a true West Virginian legend! Tenacious, resilient, and maybe just a little unhinged.
I’ll be watching from the bleachers. Or the woods. Or possibly your nightmares.
With shadowy regards and glittering red eyes,
Mothman
Local cryptid, unsolicited coach, bridge critic
P.S. Please stop leaving beef jerky and vape pens in my shrine behind the band room. I only accept pepperoni rolls and moonshine now.
