I was a high school athlete. I played a bit of football, some golf, and some baseball. But. What I loved the most was basketball. And I was pretty freakin awesome. I'm also humble. So there. I won MVP my junior and senior year, and I scored almost a thousand points in 2 seasons. I could give you a complete list of the awards, but I think I'd prolly lose some of your interest on the way.
Anyhow, a couple of weeks ago, I was playing a pick up game for the first time in about 2 months. I was huffin and puffin, and barely making up and down the floor. It just so happened that I was involved in a collision with Statgirl's older brother. He weighs approximately 105 pounds soaking wet, and is about 6'5". I am a mediocre 5'11" and an unmovable 350 pounds. To give you a reference point, thats like Lance Armstrong on his bike playing chicken with Optimus Prime. Wait. I kinda believe Lance would win that. Somehow. Okay. Lance without a bracelet vs Optimus. There we go.
So when this collision happened, I was not expecting my knee to give out like a trampoline at a fat kid camp, but it did. So lame. So I made a decision. No more basketball till I lose 50 pounds. That's it. I won't do it.
So when I got a text yesterday morning that said, "softball at the school at 7:30" I thought, well, it's not basketball. And I was in.
I haven't swung a bat in a year. At least. I haven't thrown anything in about the same amount of time. So when I got out there and started warming up, my back said, "Hey douche, you wanna stretch? Or hows about we go home and get a beer?" My back loves beer. And sitting. Anyway, I'm an ex high school athlete. I play through (most of) the pain. I keep going. I decide I'm playing third. I love third. Third is the best base ever, because you don't have to move much, and you get a lot of action. It's kinda like your first studio apartment with your new girlfriend.
These kids warmed up for 2 hours. Warmed up. Warmed. Up. After 2 hours of anything, I'm exhausted. Finally, they chose teams. I'm not gonna lie, I had to use drastic measures to not get picked last. I'm not proud, but I wasn't picked last either. I count that a moral loss, but an overall victory.
We batted first. My first up, I hit a dribbler to third. I take off. I'm kind of like a train. It takes a while to get movin, but I don't stop easy. Statgirl was on first, and I'm pretty sure that (insert appropriate MLB third basemans name here) was on third. This kid fielded the ball, and ROCKETED it to first. I'm positive that the only thing that got me there safely was a.) Statgirl was scared of the ball comin at 120 mph towards her face. And b.) Statgirl was scared that I was coming towards her screaming like an idiot hoping to make her drop the ball. It worked. The ball flew over her head, and I started truckin it towards second. I hit second and had a small heart attack. Or a stroke. Either or both. Still not sure. The next guy up to bat hits one to the fence, and I make it home. Like a hero.
The last time I went up to bat, I hit one to the fence and got a double out of it. Barely. The only thing that saved me there was that I'm pretty sure the left fielder was texting someone when I came up to bat. Yeah. I'm that good. The next batter hits a short pop up to center field, and I tagged up and went for it. My brother, The Groom, was playing center. The douche didn't even give me a chance. He makes the throw, and the 3rd baseman catches the ball while I'm still 10 feet from the base.
I have a decision to make. I can turn, and get caught in a game of pickle. This is not even an option. I WEIGH 350 POUNDS. I eat pickles. Thats all. So I think, "this kid on third weighs 120, maybe. I'm gonna bulldog him." So I bear down. (I will reference once again the Optimus and bracelet-less Lance here) I get to the bag, and istead of hitting me head on like a man, this kid does some sort of Jet Li spin, drops down, HITS MY KNEE with his glove, and does another Jet Li spin out of the way of a suddenly tripped up Optimus Prime. I rolled damn near into the dugout. I'm gonna give him credit, it was a beautiful play.
I quit soon after, on account of every part of my body hurting, plus on my little tuck and roll without the tuck, I rolled through some grass and got some chiggers. So I was itchin like crazy.
I woke up this morning, and my back was PISSED. My right hip seems to be somewhat out of socket, and I'm having trouble putting weight on my knee. All this has given me a very interesting walk, and I may see what I can do about having it copyrighted.
But if I get a text today about softball at the school... I'm there. I'm an ex high school athlete. You can take my knees, but you can't take my pride.
Wait. That third baseman did. Douche.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Athlete Won't Die...
I'm a husband, father, son, brother, and friend. I teach English and Literature to the youth of today. I love Jesus and my mother, and I'll gladly introduce you to both. I love photography and writing. Duke basketball keeps me occupied for half the year, and hating Chapel Hill keeps me busy the other half. As you can tell from the title of my blog, I like stories. I'm a big guy with a big voice, trying desperately to be heard by someone before The Lord takes me home. Let's be best friends.