Kicks Like A Girl!
Wednesday - September 12, 2007
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Del.icio.usMany times I tend to do things just to be nice, and I almost always end up regretting it. Case in point is my signing up to play kick-ball. That’s right, the big red rubber ball kind of kickball we all played in elementary school.
There’s all kinds of office sports leagues, including basketball, softball and such, but I was approached about a month ago to join some of the MidWeek staff in a kickball league. I immediately pictured Dodgeball: A True Undeerdog, The Movie and signed up as a gesture of team spirit and to boost morale.
If anything, I would get a cool T-shirt out of it even though my plan was to never play. After avoiding three games, I was finally called on my commitment. Most of the players from our office are women so they were egging me on about it.
Last week I finally decided that I would show up for a game. The fact that there would be Pau Hana drinks afterward helped inspire me to “step up to the plate.” When I told my family that I was going to play, they acted as though I were going to fly on the space shuttle.
“You mean you’re going to run?” were the first words that came out of my wife’s mouth. It was as though I never did anything remotely physical in my life - although upon thinking about it, the last time I ran was in 1987.
On the day of the game, I was walking around the office kind of bragging that I was going to play kickball that night. One woman who I’ve worked with for nearly 20 years said, “You mean you’re going to run?” Talk about confidence building.
When I showed up at the playing field, I was the only guy there to warm up with the ladies. These gals were all in their twenties and in tip-top shape. They were all athletes in their own right and that’s when I realized this was serious. To compensate for my lack of ability, I started talking “smack.”
That was a bad move as then they collectively decided to test my abilities. The next thing I knew, I was running all over the field trying to catch balls put up by these ladies. Before the game even started I was on the verge of a major heart attack.
Still, I couldn’t let on by wimping out. If word got out at the office, I would lose all respect from the guys as having gotten my “okole” kicked by a bunch of girls in kickball. I played through the whole game and, although we lost, I was scrambling eggs on the field.
When the game ended, it took all my leftover strength and stamina to pretend that I was unaffected by that rigorous workout. Everyone seemed impressed and I proudly but gingerly walked to my truck. As soon as I got in, I called my wife to let her know I was still alive. Out of breath and with every muscle in my body aching, I managed to tell her one thing, “Call 9-1-1.”
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