I'm not sure what made me think that, at 42 years old, I could don a pair of cleats and go whip my two boys in baseball. But, that's exactly what I thought. I even backed up the smack talk with a picture on Facebook of my cleats with the message "Bring it On!"
I'm not changing the subject or anything but did you know that there are different levels of calf muscle injuries?
That's right. CALF MUSCLE INJURY.
You see, my competitive ju-ju was flowing as Jacob and I were in the lead 6-1 against Daniel and our golden retriever Cassie. Yes, I am bragging abut beating a dog in baseball but let's not get bogged down in the details. So, I step up to the plate, tap the mud off my cleats because that's what we ball players do. Then, in an oh-so-impressive display of athletic prowess, I swung the plastic yellow bat and connected with the tennis ball sending it sailing against the neighbor's fence -- which was clearly an in-field homer.
::insert slow motion sequence here. The fans leap to their feet. Daniel watches the ball soar over his head as I sling my bat to the side and take the first step of my victory lap around the bases (aka the frisbee, the cardboard box top and the lid to a skillet)::
And as I planted my left foot in the still-saturated-from-snow dirt, I pushed off and heard a POP! as a sharp pain shot through my left calf and I dropped to the ground. Yep, you guessed it. Pulled (hopefully not tore) the muscle in my left calf. The boys rushed to my side and in a touching display of compassion and concern exclaimed "does this mean we can't play anymore???" It was a Hallmark moment, really.
You know, when I first posted the smack-talking picture of my cleats on Facebook my pal Ed kindly responded with something about me being an awesome Mom. Then came the comment from my friend Debbie asking what time she needed to bring the Advil. I nearly died laughing as I called her with my leg elevated on a bag of frozen peas. It was no surprise to her that I had sustained a career-ending injury and she laughed with me at the prophetic nature of her comment.
Perhaps I should stick to the crafty stuff and remember with fondness the glory days of sending one over the fence, of rounding the bases as the crowds roared and my team poured out of the dugout to meet me at home plate. Of course, I'm guessing you can't remember things that never happened, huh?
What happened today was a 42-year old woman talked smack to her kids then injured herself and writhed around in the mud in pain before resting her leg on a bag of frozen veggies. If it wasn't so pathetic, I'd probably refrain from laughing. But I can't. And when I'm walking again in 7 or 8 months, I'm sure the call of the game will draw me back out there again.
What can I say? Once a pretend ball player, always a pretend