I'm hobbling around today and I can explain. I'm not athletic. I am competitive. Now, I'm not competitive in all situations, just ones that involve my husband. So when my husband challenged me to a little family game of two on two, it was game on. Him and the 10-year old daughter. Me and the 14-year old son. We'd play to 7. One point per basket. Win by two.
Accepting spousal challenges in strategic games of Scrabble or Pictionary is one thing. Accepting spousal challenges in games of sport is quite another. My 6'3" 265-pounds-of muscle husband was a Big Ten Lineman. My total basketball career? Seventh grade. It was seventh grade when creepy Mr. Petersen, the reading teacher, asked every girl in the class to join the basketball team. Every single girl, that is, except me. That was all the excuse I needed. I signed up. It wasn't a long or illustrious career, but I did finish the season with a little knowledge of how to use the backboard and how to hit a free throw. Shortly after basketball season, I discovered my real extra-curricular calling: The Musical Theatre.
The family game was competitive and I hit my stride. Throw the ball in. Pass. Nothing but net. Throw the ball in. Pass. Backboard shot. Swish. When we reached the magic score of 7, it was tied. Ahead by one. Tied. Behind by one. Tied. The game went on.
When the score hit ten, I tripped over my feet and found myself horizontal on the driveway. The kids were watching. I made a point not to cry. I went inside to wash the road rash on my elbow and forearm. We'd been playing nearly an hour. Shouldn't I stop to fix dinner? Aren't moms supposed to do that?
"If you need to stop, I understand," my husband said. "I'm fine!" I protested. I couldn't let the teenage boy down. I turned up my game. Surely, this would be over soon. I ran, I hip checked, I waved my arms wildly when my ten-year old had the ball. I showed no mercy.
Two hours later the game ended: 27-25. Although we came up short, we played to win. In playing to win, I gained the respect of my kids. "Mom," my 10-year old said in amazement, "you've still got your groove!" The words were like ointment on the aches and the bruises and the road rash.
In conclusion, I'd like to thank the academy and my parents for raising me to believe that there is nothing I can't do. In the meantime, you can find me exercising my athletic prowess somewhere softer - like a yoga mat!
Two hours later the game ended: 27-25. Although we came up short, we played to win. In playing to win, I gained the respect of my kids. "Mom," my 10-year old said in amazement, "you've still got your groove!" The words were like ointment on the aches and the bruises and the road rash.
In conclusion, I'd like to thank the academy and my parents for raising me to believe that there is nothing I can't do. In the meantime, you can find me exercising my athletic prowess somewhere softer - like a yoga mat!