Truesday: A Probable Red Card Problem

I do know that my father’s generation hadn’t really heard of it beyond a whisper until they had to figure out what to do with their budding suburban broods. I was joined to a league as a small child. I believe it was an attempt on the part of the parents involved to try and structure our lives so that we’d stop occupying our time with torturing the family cat and/or setting valuable shit on fire.

It was a stall, at best. Little boys will do what little boys will do.

They shin-guarded us, told us how fun “competition” is, slipped us into some really ridiculous looking plastic shorts, and begged us to act like we cared about winning.

Needless to say, it worked like a clay hammer: poorly planned, completely impotent, and offering an everlasting impression of confusing failure for all involved. I remember running a-lot, and never really knowing why. When I wasn’t running in pointless circles of confusion, I was sitting down and picking at bugs in the dirt. I have no idea who, if anyone, ever triumphed on those forlorn fields of sorta-battle. But I do remember some elements of the sport itself.

The funner elements of this sport are the following:

1. The ball is easily palmed, so one could dunk it if so inclined.
2. If your team scores, you have the right, nay: responsibility to go apeshit.
3. The team jerseys are dope looking and usually have vented armpits for stank transmission.
4. “Accidentally” kicking people is part of the game.
5. There are no commercials if you catch a match on television.

The less funner elements of this sport are the following:

1. The field is large. Like, hospital large.
2. Only one person per team can use their hands for anything beyond penalties.
3. There are no time-outs. Unless someone dies.
4. Ties are completely acceptable, including 0 – 0, which is pretty much like not having played at all.
5. Aside from the guy who gets to use his hands, everyone is constantly running for pretty much the entire game.

I never cease to amaze my silly self with the actually-unimpressive list of really idiotic things I find myself doing (to myself). It’s as if I have no self-respect.

And no, that doesn’t include public: self-urination or cowering during an onslaught of verbal abuse brought by a gang of really, really attractive nose-ringed and under-five-foot lesbians on the dancefloor. No, I wasn’t hitting on them. Apparently I was sweating profusely and dancing like a morose cadaver. A sweating cadaver. Something like that. My word, they were cute.

Matters not.

Those are obvious faux pas which I put little to no stock in. They differentiate me from no one.

I’m talking about decisions such as my most recent attempt at destroying what little remains of my frittering health: I joined a soccer team.

The good news is that the team is sponsored by a bar. The potential bad news is that it is highly unlikely that all the other teams in our league are sponsored by bars. They will likely be sponsored by large multi-national corporations, GNC, or The Soviets. I’m half expecting this to be some version of The Bad News Bears meets Gattica.

Which pretty much sums up the plot behind Dodgeball. And I think we can all agree that Dodgeball, aside from Wedding Crashers, is the most important movie ever made for men between the ages of 28 and 32 who have never seen a live woman naked without paying for it. So, my life for the next couple of months will be cooler than hookers yet not near as cool as Wedding Crashers. But dollars to donuts says we’ll save our precious shit-hole gym from those marauding mustachioed corporate-types.

Actually, I wouldn’t give a shit about any gym. But the bar and its reputation must be protected at all costs.

I’m not a praying man, but I’m really considering picking up a faith or two for the duration of this soccer season. For the sake of my cry-baby gimp knees and my limpy cindered lungs. Anyone been outside in the last two months? It’s ridiculous. Old people are dying out there, and I’m actually planning on running around without shade for hours at a time.

At least there’s little probability that I’ll suffer any further brain damage.