I can't participate in kickball due to my back. One furious sprint and slide to first base and guaranteed, I'll be laid up for a week on our fur-covered floor cursing the day the dang sport was invented and sipping wine out of a bendy straw. Better to cheerlead.
Unfortunately, I've missed the last two games, resulting in play-by-play recaps from Jon at the end of the night, often accompanied by an angry fist smacking into a palm. Wednesday's game against Fecal Matter (the names of these teams are just ridiculous)? Is This A Sport's third loss in a row. However, that isn't what brought Jon home in a tizzy.
Embarassed due to his previous 0 - 5 stints at bat, Jon placed himself conservatively in centerfield. An important role in outfield, but less necessary than short stop or third base.
So he thought.
Mid-game, one of the Fecal Matter team members nailed the kickball with the force of a cannon and sent the ball flying straight to Jon, who called out, "Got it!"
Hah. Ha ha.
If, by "Got it!," one means running backwards in a pair of ridiculously thick sweatpants, reaching your hands out to grab the incoming ball, stepping on the edge of said sweatpants, and falling straight backwards like a gunshot-tin can (as the ball bounces off the tip of your outstretched fingers), thereby allowing three more runs . . . then yes, he got it.
At the end of the game and after three more strikeouts at bat, Jon announced he was a liability for the team and "good for nothing." To which a team member replied with a smile, "Not nothing. You're good for a laugh."
Our dream of having an NFL kicker for a son is going down in flames as I type.