Coaches? Not so much.
Because I am a glutton for punishment, I suited up with the other – younger – coaches and played in the scrimmages. Things were going along swimmingly until I decided to try and stop a shot. One of our better shooters was winding up, and I didn’t want him to score, so I stepped in front of him. Immediately I realized that was a mistake. The kid was maybe ten feet away and as he shot I tried to pivot, letting my back take the force of the lacrosse ball.
(For the uninitiated, a lacrosse ball is made of rubber and has the weight and consistency of a baseball. Being hit by one is not a pleasant feeling.)
As an old man, I was unable to pivot quickly enough, and the shot struck me in the left side of the chest, right about where the heart is located. Luckily I don’t have one of those. I also was not wearing shoulder pads, so the only thing between the ball and me was a t-shirt.
The force of the shot pushed me back a step but it took a moment for the pain to set in. When it did, I dropped to one knee, shrieked a few “sentence enhancers,” and wept for an hour and a half. The play was still going on, so I had to pick myself up and continue playing defense. Like my sex life, I was inadequate. At the next stoppage, I walked to the sidelines, put a sub in for me, and spent the rest of the game hoping I would not die from the impact.
Two days later my chest is still killing me and it has turned a lovely shade of purple. If you don’t see any new posts for a few days, it is because I perished from my injuries. Leave the flowers and get out.