I hurt today. My knees, my inner thighs, my butt and even the area of my arm near my armpits.
When I met my friend for our 6:30 a.m. run today, I asked if we could go an alternative -- shorter -- route. My knees woke up angry today, and I wanted to be nice to them. Turns out, we ran a route that is just as long as our usual one. But this one was prettier -- along Lake Michigan -- and so I forgot about my knees.
Who knew that 45 minutes of flag football could make you sore! It's a good kind of sore. The kind where you're reminded that you did something beneficial for your body. I'm happy I'm sore. But I feel old whenever I climb up and down the stairs to our third-floor apartment.
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Adult intramural sports.
My husband's intramural flag football team was hurting for players today, and without enough players, the team would have had to forfeit.
And this morning, Ben warned me that I might have to fill in.
I pushed his comment aside, got dressed in jeans and a turtle neck and trotted back to our office intent on job searching. I thought that if I went about my morning, in the office out of Ben's sight, he might forget that he needed me to play ball.
But about an hour before the game was scheduled to start, he asked me to get dressed. He didn't know if his team would need me, but would I go anyway?
I put on my angry face -- eyes rolling -- and changed into exercise clothes. I wanted to lecture him on commitment. If his peers sign up for football, they should show up.
Other wives and husbands might have been happy for an excuse to escape from their apartments to spend an hour outside. To play football. In the middle of a weekday. But I don't play football. For those who knew me when I was a kid, they know that ball sports and I DON'T MIX.
The kids used to call me butter fingers. The few times my teammates threw me the basketball during elementary school, the ball always slipped through my fingers. And when I played summer softball in junior high, I oddly could always catch the ball in practice but never in a game.
We drove to the football field, but I waited in the car with my book. I told Ben to get me if he needed me, otherwise I would keep on reading until the game was over.
About 10 minutes later, he motioned for me. Arms crossed, I walked to the field and tried to give his teammates the stink eye.
One asked me, "Isn't this better than running marathons?"
Did he know that I can't catch a football? Or throw one?
The game got underway, and I ran back and forth on the field as I had promised.
"Run up and down the field. That's all I'm going to do," I told Ben.
I also cheered on my teammates. I huddled and pretended to know about "options" and "blitzes." I covered a girl who was decent, who got to run with the ball a few times. I even made a "tackle," and I have the grass stains and sore knee (hours later) to prove it.
And this morning, Ben warned me that I might have to fill in.
I pushed his comment aside, got dressed in jeans and a turtle neck and trotted back to our office intent on job searching. I thought that if I went about my morning, in the office out of Ben's sight, he might forget that he needed me to play ball.
But about an hour before the game was scheduled to start, he asked me to get dressed. He didn't know if his team would need me, but would I go anyway?
I put on my angry face -- eyes rolling -- and changed into exercise clothes. I wanted to lecture him on commitment. If his peers sign up for football, they should show up.
Other wives and husbands might have been happy for an excuse to escape from their apartments to spend an hour outside. To play football. In the middle of a weekday. But I don't play football. For those who knew me when I was a kid, they know that ball sports and I DON'T MIX.
The kids used to call me butter fingers. The few times my teammates threw me the basketball during elementary school, the ball always slipped through my fingers. And when I played summer softball in junior high, I oddly could always catch the ball in practice but never in a game.
We drove to the football field, but I waited in the car with my book. I told Ben to get me if he needed me, otherwise I would keep on reading until the game was over.
About 10 minutes later, he motioned for me. Arms crossed, I walked to the field and tried to give his teammates the stink eye.
One asked me, "Isn't this better than running marathons?"
Did he know that I can't catch a football? Or throw one?
The game got underway, and I ran back and forth on the field as I had promised.
"Run up and down the field. That's all I'm going to do," I told Ben.
I also cheered on my teammates. I huddled and pretended to know about "options" and "blitzes." I covered a girl who was decent, who got to run with the ball a few times. I even made a "tackle," and I have the grass stains and sore knee (hours later) to prove it.
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