Flag Football

How appropriate that my 150th post was this one: http://writblog.blogspot.com/2007/05/highlow.html.

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Generally, I can’t write about anything when I 1. drink alcohol, or 2. run like mad. Not enough blood in the brain to remember coherently what’s going on. However, we’ve started playing flag football after work at L.M., and there are some events that stand out.

W.J. decided to punt for us on the very first play of the game. Had the ball poised between his hands, dropped it, and punted it true. The arc curved across the sky, we ran down, and relieved … someone … of their flag. Meanwhile, W.J. stayed back on our side of the field. He’d injured his groin on the kick. The rest of the day saw him holding himself like a pervert, hobbling around the field like a man twice his age. The next day, during the dreaded all-day meeting, W.J. remained quite laconic, speaking only when spoken to, volunteering nothing. I think we got out a little early because he had nothing to say.

An errant punt rolled towards the volleyball fields. One of the volleyballers, a female, picked it up, apologized for the impending throw, then spiraled it 30 yards directly to one of our players. Prettiest throw we’d seen all day. Prettiest thrower we’d seen all day. Of course, my dumb ass was the first to speak up. “Can she be our new quarterback?”

R.B. decided to play, but had no clothing. Thus, he went shoeless and shirtless (and we gave him no service). Both E.B. and myself offered him a shirt to wear, but he turned down our offers, stating that he would be just fine. We were not. He sweated like a mint julep on a southern plantation in June. After a bit, the ball got so slippery, because he was catching the ball against his sweaty chest. Going in for the flag was also a dicey proposition, as the sweat dripped onto his flags.

E.B. (also known as “The Pain Train”) caught the ball on a kickoff return and steamed his way towards the end zone. None of us could stop him, as he had that perfect mix of speed and strength. Right before the end zone, with no one near him, he takes a giant leap into the air and soars into the end zone. Granted, he did need the style points to unlock the gamebreaker, but damn.

J.E. and T.B. had been trash talking each other all day. J.E. wanted to tackle T.B. T.B. weighs around three hundred and thirty pounds. J.E. weighs significantly less. On one short pass, T.B. caught the ball near the sideline and “dodged” two flag takers. J.E. was the last person, and attempted to tackle T.B. In response, T.B. raised his arm above his head and brought it down on J.E., smacking him down, and “rumbling, bumbling, stumbling” into the end zone. J.E. stayed down for a little while, clutching his chest and mewling.

Because I’m so arrogant and have such great self-esteem, I’d like to brag. W.J., post groin-strain, took up quarterback duties. He lofted a pass to T.B., which was about three feet out of his reach. I had broken away from my coverage, and happened to be just close enough to snatch the ball out of the air two feet from the ground, and sauntered into the end zone, while everyone just stood there confused.

And, of course, because it’s me, I’d like to bring myself back down to earth. I volunteered for quarterback for a couple of series. The first series, I ran the Mark Brunell 5 feet and shorter passes offense. We took about eight plays to get within five yards of the end zone, and T.S. stated “Wow, even you can complete this.” Loft into the end zone, intercepted and returned to midfield.