Adding Injury to Insult

I suppose it had something to do with a Super Bowl hangover, but when I got home from work yesterday afternoon, I was beat. I curled up on the edge of my bed and turned Criminal Minds on. I always find it easier to sleep in the afternoon if the television is on, and much, much easier if the dialogue centers around the psychology of serial killers. It’s a nice lullaby. I had a softball game at 8, and I knew that the nap all but ensured that I wouldn’t fall asleep until at least 11. I didn’t sleep until 12. The day ahead of me doesn’t look particularly promising.

There goes my hero.

There goes my hero.

I feel as if I should just go ahead and copy/paste my last three entries about softball. I’m still a train wreck on fire at the plate. I struck out looking during my first at-bat (it was not a strike) and that set the tone for what would be a night of complete frustration, culminating in hitting a one-hopper to the pitcher to end the game with the bases loaded. If I were less in control of my emotions, you know, someone like Matty, I would have A) thrown the bat, B) unleashed a loud and extended F-bomb, or C) Both A and B. But I took one step out of the box, saw the ball hop into the pitcher’s glove, then turned to walk back to the dugout. It was that kind of night. In addition, despite our team is in the lowest skill level bracket in the league, the team we played had three different players hit the ball out of the park just for the hell of it. This is important because there isn’t a single person on our team who could do that if they were trying and the wind was blowing out. It was kind of irking, but I might have minded less if I squared up the ball at any point during my four ABs.

How did it come to this?

How did it come to this?

Last night was the first game I played wearing my glasses the entire time. It wasn’t something I really wanted to do, but it’s gotten to the point that trying to track a yellow blur as it bounds towards me is pretty difficult at night. My primary concern was that it could mean I should probably stop diving for ground balls. When I suggested this to Matty, he said “What are you talking about? That’s not us.” He’s right. I was playing first and a lefty hit a hard grounder down the line. I dove for the ball but did not make the play. I lay on my stomach watching the ball roll down the right field line. Like Hamlet, I wished that my flesh would simply melt into a puddle and be absorbed by the dusty dirt of the infield. I don’t have the hard evidence to support my following claim, but I don’t think I’ve made a play on the last 6 or 7 grounders I’ve laid out for. This is a horrible ratio. I’m usually good for 50/50 or one-out-of-three. If this streak of misses continues. I might seriously just stop diving. I mean, the whole reason I lay out is because I believe I have a chance to make a play. Recently, I’ve been hitting the ground just in time to watch the ball zip past my outstretched glove by an inch or two. It’s beyond humbling.

It wasn't easy.

It wasn’t easy.

I seemed to have jammed my right wrist on that diving attempt. It was sore last night, but this morning it was sore and stiff. In the three or so hours I have been awake, I have discovered that this injury makes it difficult for me to do the following things:

brush my teeth, wash my face, turn door knobs, manipulate the steering wheel, wipe my ass, hold my phone the way I usually do, erase the whiteboard, write on the whiteboard, carry textbooks, write on paper, and use the mouse.

I am sure that this day will be full of the discovery of even more things that I cannot do with my right hand without discomfort. I never ever look forward to grading things, but I have already budgeted the next three afternoon/evenings to doing just that. And now I will have to do so with a balky wrist. I am going to do some research on deer antler spray during my free periods to see what can be done to enhance my grading performance.

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