Pain actually
Mar. 23rd, 2004 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraNote to self: do not ever ever ever ever listen to coach when he says "Hey, look, today we're going to work on sliding. Carmen, why don't you get out there and show them how it's done?" Because then of course I went out to demonstrate, took a quick running start from first base, tucked my arms in, crossed my legs into a "4" shape, and made a perfect slide into second. But my coach, of course, wasn't satisfied. "Do it again," he said. Turning to the team, he continued, "Now this time you watch what she does." I jogged back to first, readied myself, and took off again toward second, coming in with a nice cloud of dust and a functional, if not exactly beautiful, slide. I got up, dusted myself off, and grinned at the group of girls watching me with facial expressions varying from sympathy to frank terror.
"Try it one more time," Coach said, and I was reluctantly on my way back to first base, my legs complaining that they didn't appreciate the abuse and furthermore that they would go on strike if it continued much longer.
"This is the last one," I called from first base, the fateful words echoing under the ominously dark sky. John Williams set up camp in center field and began to play ominous music. The girls quieted ominously. There was ominousness. (Actually, the whole thing was quite cheery, but that somehow doesn't quite reflect what happened as soon as I began to run.)
My start from first was less than stellar, but I managed to pick up enough speed to make a decent slide. So I let my legs go limp under me, crossed my right leg under my left, and promptly hit a previously uncharted pothole situated a convenient two meters from second base. My stop, sudden, unexpected, and jarring, was anything but what Coach had wanted to demonstrate, and as I levered myself up I did my best not to reveal that the slide had been excruciatingly painful. Still, there was no way to hide the fact that I was cursing steadily under my breath and limping around to try to alleviate some of the hurt from the cuts and bruises that formed a line down the outside of my right leg and inside of my left knee and calf. When I curse, everyone who knows me understands that there's something wrong, so of course the rest of the team flooded me with questions until I had to admit that I had hurt myself on the slide and should probably pull up my pants and take a look at the damage.
Coach took one cursory glance at me, pronounced me fit to play, and immediately insisted that I strap on catcher's gear and start warming up the pitcher so we could scrimmage. I think if I see him again I'll jump him. It's not like it's been forever since he played baseball - he's only a junior at the local college here. He knows that it hurts. And even though I love him most of the time, sometimes he can just be a little much.
In other news, my school is having some sort of honor roll lunch thing tomorrow that I am required to attend. These little get-togethers are always horrible. (Ooh! Look at how much smarter than your kid my kid is! Well, mine has a 4.28 Grade Point Average. Well, mine has a 4.4.) Meh. These events are so repetitive. Let us get on to competing with each other again so we can speed up the process and get another batch of people on the honor roll. Or let's do away with honor roll together. Really, when it comes down to it, who in real life is going to care that you had a 3.9 G.P.A?
"Try it one more time," Coach said, and I was reluctantly on my way back to first base, my legs complaining that they didn't appreciate the abuse and furthermore that they would go on strike if it continued much longer.
"This is the last one," I called from first base, the fateful words echoing under the ominously dark sky. John Williams set up camp in center field and began to play ominous music. The girls quieted ominously. There was ominousness. (Actually, the whole thing was quite cheery, but that somehow doesn't quite reflect what happened as soon as I began to run.)
My start from first was less than stellar, but I managed to pick up enough speed to make a decent slide. So I let my legs go limp under me, crossed my right leg under my left, and promptly hit a previously uncharted pothole situated a convenient two meters from second base. My stop, sudden, unexpected, and jarring, was anything but what Coach had wanted to demonstrate, and as I levered myself up I did my best not to reveal that the slide had been excruciatingly painful. Still, there was no way to hide the fact that I was cursing steadily under my breath and limping around to try to alleviate some of the hurt from the cuts and bruises that formed a line down the outside of my right leg and inside of my left knee and calf. When I curse, everyone who knows me understands that there's something wrong, so of course the rest of the team flooded me with questions until I had to admit that I had hurt myself on the slide and should probably pull up my pants and take a look at the damage.
Coach took one cursory glance at me, pronounced me fit to play, and immediately insisted that I strap on catcher's gear and start warming up the pitcher so we could scrimmage. I think if I see him again I'll jump him. It's not like it's been forever since he played baseball - he's only a junior at the local college here. He knows that it hurts. And even though I love him most of the time, sometimes he can just be a little much.
In other news, my school is having some sort of honor roll lunch thing tomorrow that I am required to attend. These little get-togethers are always horrible. (Ooh! Look at how much smarter than your kid my kid is! Well, mine has a 4.28 Grade Point Average. Well, mine has a 4.4.) Meh. These events are so repetitive. Let us get on to competing with each other again so we can speed up the process and get another batch of people on the honor roll. Or let's do away with honor roll together. Really, when it comes down to it, who in real life is going to care that you had a 3.9 G.P.A?
