Foul Play

The other day, I was wondering why I never joined sports in high school. I saw some kids playing basketball here, and it looked really fun. The kids playing soccer looked like they were having even more fun. While at work with the older kids today it dawned on me why I never participated in activities. The fear of balls flying at my face is a little terrifying. Basketballs, dodge balls, man balls; any of which coming directly at my face with a rapid speed is not my idea of fun. When the two boys at my work, Claudio and Boy-whose-name-I-forgot stopped, Claudio asked me to play. We kinda made up a new game which was a mix of soccer and volleyball, neither of which I am good at. I seem to lack a small, yet important factor of the hand-eye coordination. Today was an exception. I kicked some ass at this sport of basically passing the ball back and forth. At one point, I served it with such precision and force, it bounced off of the kids head, and into the old school basketball hoop mounted on the wall. (Actually, that didn´t happen..but it would have been cool.)

I should mention that this pelota (ball) was not the average ball for sports. It had no bounce, was made of hard plastic, and I´m sure if I hit it wrong, I could have shattered every bone in my wrist. (And really, I don´t know why I was playing with my wrists instead of my hands, but whatever). So just when I think that the day can´t go any better, Claudio serves the ball with such power it shoots directly over my head and I miss. Shoot. I tell him he got the point for that round. How are we scoring you ask? He get´s all of the points and wins the game, that´s how. I guess on my attempted jog to get the ball which seemed to have traveled a half mile down the road, he got angry. Your girl already worked out for the day, so running for the ball was not in my plans. We had been playing for nearly an hour in the sun, and I was wearing black. (Another reason I didn´t join sports other than Cross Country...because I´m a pussy.) And with that, I hear Claudio scream ¨puta!¨ This is the equivalent of ¨slut.¨

What?!? Where did a kid with Down Syndrome even learn this???

I turn back, and he follows his potty-mouth words with a familiar gesture I reserve for Albuquerque Road Ragers. He flips me off with his tiny little fingers. (Another reason I didn´t join team sports, people are mean). Normally I would have thought this to be hilarious, but I think he was making fun of me. He started doing flamboyant flips and dance moves to what looked like The Macareña, and pointing to me. The guy, whose pants are barley buttoned up and shoes are on the wrong feet is making fun of ME? You´ve got to be kidding. I decided I needed a five minute rest.

I walked inside to see a poor kid hyperventilating. Well, this is just great. I start thinking that I will be be the only one around when he passes out, (and then it will look like I tried to kill him). After a moment, I did the logical thing and tried to calm him down. I spoke calmly and sat next to him. In less than 30 seconds he stopped. Thinking I have the gift of Mother Teresa, I get up to go outside and finish my throw down with Claudio. Before I can stand I get pulled by the arm and back of the head. This kid is trying to make out with me. No joke, he´s leaning in for it like my face is dinner and he hasn´t had a bit to eat all week.

Really??? Was he at the Boliche the other night, too? This has got to stop; I´d rather have been present for when the kid may have passed out and looked like I tried to kill him, rather than be caught with him trying to kiss me, and me look like I´m molesting the residents. I did the only natural thing, I ran away. Actually.Ran.Away.

I get back outside and see Claudio. (It´s on, little hands). I serve the ball and we start playing. It turned out to be a ¨good match,¨ and to my surprise, there was no more foul language. Clearly, I would not have written this story without some sort of humiliation on my part, which is exactly what happens next. Claudio kicks the ball and it whizzes through my legs. It ended up going behind a tree. I began looking for it (rapidly this time, for fear of being called another name) and see my friend standing next to me. We can´t see the ball, and Claudio thinks I have hidden it. He laughs at this and then punches me in the stomach. He laughs some more. I almost vomit.

(In his defense, I don´t think he wanted to make my insides scream with heinous pain, but I´m pretty sure he is unaware of how much force he possesses. Either way, I´m positive that´s what I deserve for calling him ¨little hands.¨)

This is where I have to draw the line. I suggest he does cartwheels in the grass, and God decided to throw me a golden bone, because he thought this was a FABULOUS idea. I slouched to a bench and sat for about 2 seconds when I got pummeled with a ball. Slammed right into my shin. I didn´t think it was possible to acquire as many bruises as I did in 2 1/2 hours unless you were in the WWF.

Gladly, I will look at these hematomas as a day well spent; battle scars if you will. For me, it´s not rare to be called a name such as ¨Puta¨ or even to be flipped off...but by a kid...with special needs, oh yes, this was priceless. I couldn´t imagine a Tuesday better spent.