To Live Is To Die

My ribs are bruised. When I breath, it’s a bit painful, but not terrible. When I laugh there’s a sharp but not unbearable pain, and when I walk I feel something not quite right in my hip. Last night I stream-rolled over an opponent as four of their players had passed our defense and were on the way to an easy goal.

I didn’t like the way they were sauntering lazily towards me, as if they had all the time in the world. It’s respectful to everyone if these things are done quickly. They put me in a very bad position with few options and plenty of time. If the poor guy was smart, he would have gotten rid of the ball before I reached him. He had plenty of time – didn’t he think about what I could possibly do to prevent them from scoring? Couldn’t he deduce the result of a 210 pound white gorilla lumbering towards him at full speed?

I thoroughly pummeled him into the ground by simply occupying what had previously been his physical space. Two people can’t occupy the same space at the same time, and the laws of momentum make it clear what the rebound of two unequal masses at differing velocities will look like after collision.

The look on his face as he lay on his back wasn’t one of pain, fear, or anger. It was utter confusion. I think he didn’t know where he was or what had happened. I squatted over him, patted his chest and added one more disingenuous swipe at his dignity: “Sorry…. I didn’t mean to do it so hard.”

No response… He lay like a helpless lamb separated from its herd, and you know what happens to stray lambs. His woolly blond hair packed close to his head with a protruding nose and wide nostrils.  What pity can one have for such a creature? Eventually he wobbled back to his feet and walked shakily about for a few minutes as the penalty kick was taken and play continued (and they didn’t score).

We lost anyway.