So for reasons that I can't even understand I decided to play football on Sunday.
And handful of guys ranging in age from the early twenties to mid-thirties with a couple of hard-as-nails old timers gets together on Sundays to slop around in the mud and relive their glory days. For some reason they asked me to come.
It was billed to me as two hand touch, but on the first play from scrimmage I found out that you can't always believe what you read on the label. The first play I was told to fake a block then swing out wide into the flat. I ran the pattern, got open, caught my first pass and was crushed from both sides and slammed face first into the mud. I'm fairly certain that was my initiation as "nice catch" sounded a hell of a lot like " welcome to the club".
It went pretty well from there, but at one point I found myself, cartoon like, flying through the air backwards, curiously looking up at my feet. Everything was going really slowly and I thought, " hey wow, those are my feet up there". Suddenly everything got going really fast again and I simultaneously cracked my head and filled my pants with two pounds of mud.
Needless to say, yesterday morning was wretched. I was barely functional. Last night was the finals of our poker league, and had I not been hosting, I would have skipped it and forfeited my spot. Instead, as the host, I come home from work, fed the kids, and set up for the tournament. By 6:30 I was done, left virtually immobile.
As a last resort, I went up the the bathroom, filled the tub with scalding water and Epsom salts, and laid in there and prayed. After a half hour I rolled out of the tub, down the stairs, ate 750 mg of ibuprofen, drank two DogfishHead beers, and pulled a chair up to the table. In the end, neither the praying nor the dogfishhead could stop J2 from beating my KJ when a couple of deuces hit on the turn and river. The Championship eluded my grasp and I'm left only to dream about next season.
They say that the second day is always worse. Whoever the hell "THEY" are they're right ! I laid in bed until around 11 am when my wife wandered in to do get some laundry and found me laying there unable to sit up. After rolling me to the edge of the bed and helping me get my socks on she sent me off to work. I'm sitting here now feeling a little better, but seriously thinking about peeing in my coffee cup rather than trying to get out of my chair and make the long walk down the hallway.
Sometimes I just don't get me. Wouldn't a sports car, a tattoo or a girlfriend be easier than drinking all night or trying to beat the crap out of 25 year old meatheads ? Why can't I just be normal?