Monday, January 25, 2016

Life is a Race to The Finish Line.


You know when you are a kid and walking down the hall at school and then someone comes up and you realize is walking beside  you?  And then you speed up a little, and they speed up to keep up with you, and you speed up and pull ahead, then they are beside you again and you both look at each other and it is on!  He passes you, and you catch up, elbow him and move out front and finally you quite pretending to walk and break into a full neck run, at precisely the same second and before you know it, without a single word spoken between you, you are both heading for the finish line at the end of the hall, leaping over other students in your path, bursting through armfuls of books and NEEEEEEDING the win!   

How come there is no-one ever there to give you the first place ribbon?  That take a lot of skill and effort, and let's face it . . . someone could have died.


Sometimes the principal shows up before the finish line is reached, +and yells at you, "No running in the hall," and and then you have to slow to a walk, still racing, either waiting for him to turn into a doorway and disappear so you can start running again, or doing the best imitation speed walking ever!   A win is still a win, regardless of the speed used to attain it.  

I was pretty competitive with sports.  I would run, fall, roll, get back up and keep running in order to be the first one to a ball.   I could take out a whole team on my way to that damn ball.   I never thought what I looked like.   I was in the zone and I wanted to win.  The boys were so impressed.  I would get down and dirty with the best of them.  I could bleed and you could not keep me off the field and you would never hear a whimper of the words, "I can't."  I could, I would, and I did!!  They let me play football with them every recess and we were all good mates.  They punched me and gave me noogies just like one of the guys.   And then suddenly you are in Jr. High and some air head blonde runs past the football field at recess and the stupid boys stop the game to watch her as she runs on her tip toes, breasts fighting the training bra, all pretty and everything.

It's like the first time you realize that someone could run "pretty" and you hate her and all girls that wear dresses and fling their hair around and wear pink ...   You actually cursed your entire gender and the stupid "sex ed " class that announced to you all that you were on the brink of a magical transformation and welcomed you to your "womanhood."

And you hate that the boys care more about how she looks running than they do about the fact you only have 2 minutes left to score and you have a great play in mind.   You hate that her training bra no longer fits her in a completely different way than how your grandmother announced you did not need one yet because it would not fit you when she insisted you try one on at the local hardware store even though you never asked for one.    You want them to remember you are awesome, and can intercept any ball, and that have broken their teeth on occasion and that you can outrun all of them except Gordon Anderson and he was provincial champ last year.   But they are standing drooling on their own shoes, and the ball is lying in the dust and you are on your own.

Like when and how did that happen?

And I would just like to point out it is a perfect reason why boys should not be athletes as they cannot handle the responsibility of athletics and they lack commitment .

And let's not forget how easily they are distracted by trivial things. 


If a man cannot keep his eye on the ball, and realize the importance of a ball, then he has no business having any balls ... at all ... ever.

Just my take on sports in general.

Your Welcome.

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