This Sporting Life
I am not a sporty type. Trying to be sporty only ends up in misery for me and has long term repercussions. I am going to outline two examples of this in two posts this week. The first is to make the general point that I should always be let off games, even without a note from my Mum, and the second is directly relevant to events in the past week. Sorry for being so cryptic but I’m on some really hectic painkillers. Due to a sporting injury.
Case One: A few years ago I went to Finland with ten students of mine to visit our Finnish student friends in a student exchange programme. Many things happened on that trip, many bloggable things, but the people concerned are still alive so I have to be careful of lawsuits. However, one event lives with me still in the form of an injury that I imagine I still be complaining about when I’m an old lady grimacing and grunting as she struggles onto her Stenna Stairlift. In short I sprained the muscle attaching my bottom to my legs, I believe the medical term is “groin strain” although they only call it that so that they don’t have to use the phrase “Madam, it appears that you broke your fanny”.
The reason this injury happened is because I’m an idiot. An idiot who when asked to play in a Scotland versus Finland match of what is known in Finland and Sweden as “floor-ball” forgets that she is genetically ill equipped for such exertion. Floorball is actually indoor hockey, but the Finns are a really literal does-what-it-says-on-the-tin kind of bunch, so they like that name better because there’s a floor and a ball involved. Anything other than the name floorball would be fussy and ostentatious, which would be decidedly Un-Finnish.
So as I raced onto the court brandishing my big hockey stick, stopping short of smearing blue woad onto my face, not only had I forgotten that I was a good 20 years older than everyone else in the sportshall, I also neglected the fatal combination of being crap at sports yet still being fiercely and sometimes violently competitive. This common combination is why they invented pub quizzes; so the geeks had an outlet for competitive urges that didn’t get them killed.
Despite my brain’s protestations the game was on and I ran and I lunged for about an hour. And then I ran and I lunged for about another ten minutes even after someone told us that the little wiry blond beast that may or may not have been male or female and who kept on scoring goals against us was in fact a member of the Swedish national floorball team. The fact that we were getting brutally beaten only made me more competitive and especially determined to cause permanent physical damage to the aforementioned Swedish champion, who despite having been in the small town for two weeks we had never met before. I don’t know what the Finnish for “ringer” is, but the stench of cheating only made me more determined to get a goal against them, or at least send one of them off in a stretcher back onto the boat to Sweden that he had been smuggled in on only a couple of hours earlier.
But never mind goals, in a last ditch attempt to even get a touch of the ball, I lunged with my stick in a direction that the pelvic floor apparently wasn’t designed to go in. I don’t know whether I actually heard the sound of an elastic band pinging, but I felt that I did. It was like one of Barbie’s legs coming off. Once the legs start coming off your Barbie, she’s never quite the same.
My un-promising floorball career was cut short for want of a working set of pins. I hobbled off wanting to clutch my injury but painfully aware that it was in a indecently unclutchable area, especially in front of near homicidally shy Finns, who yes, may get naked in front of each other at a moment’s notice in a sauna, but recoil in horror if you look them in the eye when saying hello.
Three years on, whatever sinew tore, twanged and snapped during the floorball game is still quite bothersome. And how’s this for pathetic and middle aged: it aches when there’s wet weather in the post- it’s become a flaming anatomical barometer. When there’s a storm a comin’ I’m hobbling about like Kaiser Soze when he’s still pretending to be Verbal Kint in The Usual Suspects.*
So that’s my excuse for not gearing up for 2012, what about you?
Next sporting event: I bugger up my teeth playing rounders. A game where you don’t even use your teeth. Well, you shouldn’t, anyway.
*Sorry if I’ve just ruined the ending of that film for you, but you have had over 10 years to catch up.
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This Sporting Life
Disclaimer: Three Mexican Stereotypes are included in this post
(Only two are my fault)
A couple of things have happened in the last couple of weeks. You may have noticed I’ve not been posting as much. But it annoys me when bloggers blog about not posting as much, and why. So I won’t on the whole, go there. Thanks to those who contacted me to check that I wasn’t trapped under something heavy or kidnapped by banditos, anyway.
But one of those things that has happened in the last week or so is worth mentioning. Meeester had a sporting accident. A sporting accident which had him off work and by my side here in Misssy M HQ, also known as the House of the Flying Martinis. Also known as my office, during business hours.
Meeester has been asking me why I’ve not been writing about his sporting accident on the Misssives. So here it is. He will love that I have referred to his injury as “a sporting accident.”
Meeester and my sister, Misssy A, are keen badminton players. Misssy A seems to be content with playing every Monday night and thrashing the local competition roundly with the minimum of fuss. Meeester however, will take every chance to play badminton that is offered to him, and given that he is chums with the PE teacher at his school, those opportunities seem to be every break and lunchtime of every single day. He has been known to stand looking at his reflection in a mirror with his badminton racket, practicing moves. Cynics would say this has more to do with admiration than tactics.
Those cynics would be right.
It was only a matter of time before pride came before a fall. And as my sister put it, Meeester is the only person who lunges for shuttlecocks like former Scotland goalkeeper and national bespectacled (stop it….!) hero, Jim Leighton.
One ripped calf muscle later and Meeester was be-crutched and housebound signed off by the doctor for a week. Day one, he was immobile, day two he was shuffly but now able to interfere in Misssy’s working day, Day Three he was pottering about the house with my Papa’s old walking stick pretending to be my Mexican maid, Concepciόn.
“Meeesus M, I clean your computer. Eeet clean now.” he’d say, brandishing a duster.
“Meeesus M, I read your book… “ he’d say, hovering over me, “I like eet. I make few changes. Hope you no mind….Make hero Mexican. Eet better now…”
By Thursday Meeester is back at work, with walking stick. Securely wedged where sun don’t shine.
The badminton world weeps for its loss.
Many thanks to all of you who gave me your comments on your favourite Christmas films on the previous post, by the way. What an overwhelming response! Anyone would have thought you were forced. Oh, that’s right…you were.
If you’ve yet to comment, you can still do it- all opinions count. Some quite surprising films have made it in there….go here to make your views known. And listen out on the 21st December for the results on the radio.
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