July 24, 2012 § 3 Comments
I used to be really serious about kickball.
There was just something about it.
And in my elementary school, it was very competitive.
It got me seeing red like only tether ball could and there was nothing else I wanted to do more than kick that ball as hard as I could into Ben Moore’s face.
Ahem. [Sorry, Ben. I’m sure your very nice now. I think I even saw you on a ferry a few years ago with a nice looking gal who I hope softened your heart and made you a little bit less of an ass. But back then, you snapped girls’ bras and farted during math tests. You deserved a ball to the face.]
But maybe because of my really big hair, or the fact that I towered over everyone but Jimmy Lloyd and wore flannel every day, or because I bought “special kickball shoes” (a.k.a. from the boy’s section), I was never picked first to be on the team.
…that feeling when your name was shouted across the blacktop, a captain’s finger pointing right at you between other eager boys and girls lining the fence, awaiting their recess destiny and you- you were picked to win.
I always wanted that.
I know what you’re thinking- “they’re loss,” right? Cha.
But as Kenny and I ran around this weekend, from parades to soccer games, grocery shopping and dinner with wonderful friends, I caught myself looking at him and feeling so honored that he picked me.
This man, my teammate, is my partner ’til death parts us.
And he’s never even seen my mad kickball skillz.
I got that feeling, pride rising up from my belly as if chosen above all others to be on the best team there is.
And I want to do all I can to make him glad for it. Every day. That I can bless him as much as he blesses me.
Needless to say, I love my team so much I could eat a Ziploc full of orange slices, feel like I got my lucky number, and wouldn’t change the roster for the world.
[Okay, I’m out of “team” references now. You get the idea.]
To my Hon: we’re coming up on two years and I really like this game. Thanks for picking me.
Let’s get jerseys.