Ernest Hemingway:

As Ernest Hemingway once said...
'All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.'

Monday, April 23, 2007

cankle, anyone?

Picture this. It's a gorgeous, sunny spring afternoon in St. Louis. Kickball teams are squaring off all over Tower Grove park. Bit Tipsy, reeling after a loss to the Toe Jams, goes head to head with Nemesis, a super competitive, good team. We're one or two beers in, starting to crisp from the sun, and ready to kick some ass.

I'm playing first base, as usual. Some jock with a ponytail from the other team kicks the ball my way. I mean the kind of twenty-something jock who lives Monday through Saturday to play kickball on Sunday. I get it, but not in enough time to get him out at the base. No big deal. But before I know it, he's rounding first and heading towards second. I'm flabbergasted to the point of having no idea what to do next. I finally snap to it and lob the ball towards second, but this fucker is fast. By the time the ball even gets to second base, he's sprinting towards third, and eventually takes home plate. I was stunned. A fucking home run on what should have been a single. Lots of teams play aggressively, including us, but this was way beyond that. This was a ballsy move.

It's an inning or two later and the guy is up to kick again. I'm playing well behind first, as the winds were ablowing and the guys on this team could get good distance. He kicks a beeliner directly towards me - I mean so dead on that I didn't even have to move to get it. It's a grounder, however, so I have to make the play at the bag. My brain assesed the situation with record speed, and I knew I could beat him to the bag. I took off - probably not unlike the Looney Toons road runner. I was gunning for him. No way this fucker was going to take first, much less round towards second.

I was there. I was going to beat him. It was in the bag. Until a small hole in the field bent my ankle in half, that is. I swear, it wasn't an inch from the base. It was so close that both teams thought this guy stepped on my foot. I calmly walked (or limped) off the field, forcing Cootie to play the field (her worst nightmare, even though she did really good). Oh my god, I was so pissed. Not because of my ankle, but because I couldn't get that shithead out. SO PISSED. And now my ankle looks like there's a tennis ball shoved inside it. Nice.

Hopefully I'll be recovered enough to play next week. Darn ankles. Darn horribly uneven field. Darn ponytail guy from Nemesis. He did apologize afterwards, which was nice, but unnecessary. He totally thought he stepped on my foot, and I had to convince him otherwise. Believe me, I'd have knowin if he stepped on my foot. That would have been a real nightmare.

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