So I’m fielding third base in tonight’s game, and the runner comes hurtling towards me, slides, and hits me RIGHT ON THE ANKLE. 175 pound guy, slamming into me in a high speed slide. Bolts of pain shot through my ankle, but I didn’t drop the ball Big Papa had handed to me, and the runner was out. And very apologetic.
I limped off the field, swearing a blue streak and laughing. I laugh when I get hurt, for some weird reason, like the adrenaline kicks me into giggle fits. And then I sat down, put my leg up, and explained to a concerned team captain that it was going to be OK. Which it is, or will be, once the swelling goes down and the bruise develops over my anklebone.
I just spent half an hour on the phone with the boyfriend though, and had an ice pack on the ankle the whole time. He was, of course, concerned. But that concern was only a layer over the amusement, once I explained I was fine. Paul knows I’m accident prone, and his first reaction, after “are you OK?” was “what did you do?” I told him this wasn’t my fault, and that Big Papa, Team Captain, had even offered to write me a note to show him saying that. However, we all know, even if I’m not causing the accident, I’m an accident magnet. So long as it’s minor injuries though, it’s more amusing than alarming.
We still won the game against Liquor Box (I KNOW, I KNOW). And when I got to first base, I yelled that I was going to slide into all subsequent bases so I could get my revenge. I didn’t get a chance to, but it was still an awesome game. Hey, injury or not, I still love me the kickball.
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