In preparation for the upcoming lacrosse season, Kyle’s high school team – of which I am an assistant coach – has been practicing from 7-9 pm on Monday and Wednesday nights. I refer to this as practice, but in reality it is just the kids split into teams and scrimmaging for two hours.
As mentioned before, I and the other coaches occasionally play; mostly when we are craving a huge slice of humble pie.
On Wednesday night, we were short a goalie, so the head coach asked if we could bring in goalie equipment. Kyle had some from when he played in grade school, so I brought it to the scrimmage. Before we left, Mrs. Earp issued two general orders: 1. Kyle is not to play goaltender, and 2. I am not to play goaltender…
The head coach volunteered to don the gear – he’s the youngest as 32, so we encouraged him to do so – but after an hour of hearing (and not seeing) shots flying past him, he stepped out. Ever the gamer, I defied the Queen and stepped into goal… without a cup. I mean, who cares, right? I’m already snipped.
Inconceivably, I was not half bad; especially since I haven’t played goalie in nearly twenty years.
Yes, I gave up a few soft goals, and yes my little ratfink son scored on me, but I saved more than I ever thought I would. I also saved three with my face – well, facemask – because our kids apparently aim for helmets. I only gave up three goals in the first game, but my 47 years caught up to me as the hour rolled along.
At the end of practice I noticed I was sweating like Rosie O’Donnell when she eats. I wasn’t running; I was just moving horizontally while getting pelted with balls – phrasing – for an hour. It was like I switched bodies with Lindsay Lohan!
After coming home to a welcoming hot shower, I felt pretty good. Then I woke up yesterday with two throbbing knees, a sore back, and a golf ball sized welt on my thigh. Oh well, at least they didn’t hit me in the family jewels.