I love softball. I used to be good, or at least so, in my mind. These days I am content to just get a base hit, so that I only have to run 10 yards at a time. For safety's sake this is a good thing. Last night I had a freak hit that required me to advance all the way to second base, which I did without incident. Then, because the Universe hates me, the outfielder let the ball roll by her and my dang team egged me on to third. About 10 feet from the base, my legs decided I should carry on without them. It was like slow motion, I just closed my eyes and reached. I hit the dirt hard, but managed to stretch my fingers onto the base. The Ump called me safe anyway, although I don't think anyone could tell if the ball beat me, with the enormous mushroom cloud I produced. I jumped up and laughed it off, but it hurt like a mo-fo, and I desperately wanted to limp off and lick my wounds.
After the game, I couldn't even make eye contact with Dave. He was laughing so hard. I could only think of the hefty girl from last week's game and how hard I had laughed, when she tried to slide into 3rd, and stopped about 2 feet short of the base. I asked Dave if I looked as stupid as she did, and he agreed. Well, shizz.
I sustained some physical injuries, including two golf ball size knots on my knees, and road rash from my wrist to my elbow, but nothing hurts as bad as my pride.
It's unfortunate when your children inherit genes from you, that you would really rather not pass on. In the space of an hour this morning, two-thirds of my chitlins were also covered in raspberries. At least they can laugh about it too............ that is until bath time.
Dylan managed to remain unscathed, although he started to covet our wounds when Dawson and I were talking about how cool they were.
I witnessed the swan dive and I was quite impressed. I don't even hit the dirt. Way to keep yourself young.
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