Before I continue with what has now officially become a saga, I feel that I should acknowledge the fact that I live a charmed life and I really don't have any legitimate complaints especially when it's February and I played golf in shorts yesterday and it looks like I might do it again on Saturday. However, writing about over embellished faux misery is a lot more fun than writing about the alternative whatever that is. Not to mention, people seem to like reading about angst. Johnny Carson was right when he said that the thing about your problems is that 90% of the people don't care about them and the other 10% are glad you have them. So on that note, let's get back to the kvetching.
I had decided on Saturday night that I was going to get out in front of a very hectic Sunday by setting my alarm for 6:15 a.m., dragging my salty ass out of bed and going to the pool for a lengthy swim. I attempt this periodically on the weekends and it usually results in me shutting-off the alarm and sleeping until around 10:00 a.m. Then I try to make-up the slack by heading to the pool later in the day but, by then, much of the mojo is gone and the pool has been inundated with people barely making progress while moving their arms and legs in a manner that would indicate that each limb is receiving instructions from a different competing source.
Anyway, on this particular morning I pulled it off and rolled into the parking lot of my local YMCA at 6:30 a.m., an hour after it opened. Or so I thought. Turns-out I misread the schedule and was an hour and half early. It doesn't open until 8:00 a.m.?!?! What ever happened to "the early bird gets the worm?" I WANT MY FUCKING WORM!!!
I made the best of it by heading back home and riding the stationary bike in the basement which burns slightly more calories than rearranging your sock drawer. That was followed by the typical bullshit push-ups, curls and crunches that are usually associated with a home workout. I was basically one pair of tube socks and a terry cloth headband away from crossing the space time continuum to a Gold's Gym in 1979.
After that I dragged the least zombified of my two ill sons to his futsal* game because we needed him to have enough players and dammit, nobody forfeits in this fucking house! "Funny" thing was that when it came time for the game to start, we were still a couple players short so we played five on three until our other two teenage prima donnas sauntered into the gym. Actually saunter might not be the right word as it implies some kind of purposeful movement. I'm thinking about starting a company that turns parents' basements into apartments. Feels like a growth industry. Anyway, we managed to beat a team that was even more half-assed than ours. Sunday was looking up.
And then it started looking-up some more when my daughter's #8 seeded basketball team beat the #9 seed in the dreaded play-in game that you're supposed to win because the other team hasn't won a game all year. Being the favorite doesn't mean much when luck is about 83% of the determining factor on every shot. In this case, it took awhile for luck to smile on either team as we both entered the 4th quarter in the low single digits before the closest thing our team has to Vinnie "The Microwave" Johnson** caught fire and literally hit four shots in a row to put the game out of reach.
That win earned us a shot at the #1 seed two hours later which was going to be fun because we really had nothing to lose right? Wrong. The following factors made this game matter way more than it should have (to me):
(1) I don't know how your area rec leagues pick their teams but ours has a mini scouting combine followed by a draft which would be fine if (a) parent coaches weren't assholes by (b) telling the best players not to show-up for the combine so that they can (c) stack their teams for (d) the purpose of winning a 4th-5th grade rec league championship. (Note: It probably would've helped if I had gone to the combine and put some effort into the GM role instead of just drafting the midgets from my daughter's soccer team);
(2) The league was making us play a doubleheader so it was US AGAINST THEM!!!
(3) We had played the same team the previous weekend and gave them a serious run leading 14-10 at halftime before falling 29-22. After the game, the other coach said "you had us nervous there for a minute" and I responded "FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK YOOOOOUUUU!!!!" (Not really but the words were right there ready to come out).
So we took the court giving-up somewhere between six inches and a foot at every position against an older team. As had become tradition before every game this season, the referee felt compelled to say "I always forget how short your team is" and I laughed because you have to laugh at referee jokes or they will definitely go full Russian judge on you and half of your team will foul out by the third quarter.
Long painful story short. We outplayed them but lost 12-9. We had more shots, rebounds and steals. They, however, had more baskets and more instances of banshee like screaming from their coach who had the inside voice of Honey Bunny from Pulp Fiction and the mellow temperament of Joan Crawford from Mommie Dearest. It wasn't a total loss, however, as I gave one of my best postseason speeches ever and I think I convinced all of the girls they could be astronauts one day. Then I got ripped on the internet for being a feminist. Whuddya gonna do?
Hey look at that. 4,000+ words into the this goddamn neverending story and I'm finally almost to the fucking kick-off. See you back here for Part 4.
Footnotes
* Futsal is five on five soccer on a basketball court and it is totally awesome. The fact that it didn't become popular in the United States until recently pisses me off because I will reiterate that it is awesome and I would have played it every day as a kid if I could. Even if you don't like soccer, you'd like futsal because there's a shot every ten seconds and goals are actually scored with regularity as opposed to being handed-out like pieces of a Hershey bar on a life raft.
** One of the greatest and most well-earned nicknames in sports history. Vinnie "The Microwave" Johnson was a 6'2" shooting guard (built more like a running back) for the back-to-back championship Detroit Pistons teams. He got his nickname because he would come-off the bench and start pouring in points using every conceivable type of shot to overcome the fact that he was always shorter than the guy trying to guard him. Case in point, this performance in game 3 of the 1989 Finals when he hit his first six shots of the 4th quarter as follows: rebound dunk, floater, driving lay-up, leaning jump shot, fade away jump shot and finally a straight-up jump shot with a hand right in his face. And he did that kind of shit all the time. Everyone loved The Microwave. Even those who hated the Pistons (a/k/a everyone).
I had decided on Saturday night that I was going to get out in front of a very hectic Sunday by setting my alarm for 6:15 a.m., dragging my salty ass out of bed and going to the pool for a lengthy swim. I attempt this periodically on the weekends and it usually results in me shutting-off the alarm and sleeping until around 10:00 a.m. Then I try to make-up the slack by heading to the pool later in the day but, by then, much of the mojo is gone and the pool has been inundated with people barely making progress while moving their arms and legs in a manner that would indicate that each limb is receiving instructions from a different competing source.
Anyway, on this particular morning I pulled it off and rolled into the parking lot of my local YMCA at 6:30 a.m., an hour after it opened. Or so I thought. Turns-out I misread the schedule and was an hour and half early. It doesn't open until 8:00 a.m.?!?! What ever happened to "the early bird gets the worm?" I WANT MY FUCKING WORM!!!
I made the best of it by heading back home and riding the stationary bike in the basement which burns slightly more calories than rearranging your sock drawer. That was followed by the typical bullshit push-ups, curls and crunches that are usually associated with a home workout. I was basically one pair of tube socks and a terry cloth headband away from crossing the space time continuum to a Gold's Gym in 1979.
 |
| Before we started believing everything on the internet, we believed in stuff like this. |
And then it started looking-up some more when my daughter's #8 seeded basketball team beat the #9 seed in the dreaded play-in game that you're supposed to win because the other team hasn't won a game all year. Being the favorite doesn't mean much when luck is about 83% of the determining factor on every shot. In this case, it took awhile for luck to smile on either team as we both entered the 4th quarter in the low single digits before the closest thing our team has to Vinnie "The Microwave" Johnson** caught fire and literally hit four shots in a row to put the game out of reach.
That win earned us a shot at the #1 seed two hours later which was going to be fun because we really had nothing to lose right? Wrong. The following factors made this game matter way more than it should have (to me):
(1) I don't know how your area rec leagues pick their teams but ours has a mini scouting combine followed by a draft which would be fine if (a) parent coaches weren't assholes by (b) telling the best players not to show-up for the combine so that they can (c) stack their teams for (d) the purpose of winning a 4th-5th grade rec league championship. (Note: It probably would've helped if I had gone to the combine and put some effort into the GM role instead of just drafting the midgets from my daughter's soccer team);
(2) The league was making us play a doubleheader so it was US AGAINST THEM!!!
(3) We had played the same team the previous weekend and gave them a serious run leading 14-10 at halftime before falling 29-22. After the game, the other coach said "you had us nervous there for a minute" and I responded "FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKK YOOOOOUUUU!!!!" (Not really but the words were right there ready to come out).
So we took the court giving-up somewhere between six inches and a foot at every position against an older team. As had become tradition before every game this season, the referee felt compelled to say "I always forget how short your team is" and I laughed because you have to laugh at referee jokes or they will definitely go full Russian judge on you and half of your team will foul out by the third quarter.
 |
| "No more turnovers . . . EVER!!!" |
Hey look at that. 4,000+ words into the this goddamn neverending story and I'm finally almost to the fucking kick-off. See you back here for Part 4.
Footnotes
* Futsal is five on five soccer on a basketball court and it is totally awesome. The fact that it didn't become popular in the United States until recently pisses me off because I will reiterate that it is awesome and I would have played it every day as a kid if I could. Even if you don't like soccer, you'd like futsal because there's a shot every ten seconds and goals are actually scored with regularity as opposed to being handed-out like pieces of a Hershey bar on a life raft.
** One of the greatest and most well-earned nicknames in sports history. Vinnie "The Microwave" Johnson was a 6'2" shooting guard (built more like a running back) for the back-to-back championship Detroit Pistons teams. He got his nickname because he would come-off the bench and start pouring in points using every conceivable type of shot to overcome the fact that he was always shorter than the guy trying to guard him. Case in point, this performance in game 3 of the 1989 Finals when he hit his first six shots of the 4th quarter as follows: rebound dunk, floater, driving lay-up, leaning jump shot, fade away jump shot and finally a straight-up jump shot with a hand right in his face. And he did that kind of shit all the time. Everyone loved The Microwave. Even those who hated the Pistons (a/k/a everyone).
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