Karin Mitchell's books on Goodreads
Between Families Between Families
reviews: 5
ratings: 8 (avg rating 4.75)

Friday, June 20, 2008

There's no glasses in soccer

So yesterday I felt like those little seeds on dandilions had attached themselves and were scraping their initials in red lines along the insides of my eyeballs. Thus, I did not want to wear contacts to soccer. So I wore my glasses and discovered, the hard way, why it is people don't wear glasses to play soccer. Within about 30 seconds I took a ball to the face and my glasses snapped in two. Lame.

When I broke the two bones in my arm into four bones in my arm, with the ulna looking like it might come out and say hello any minute, I did not shed even a single tear. I just looked around, pointed at my crooked spot and said, "can someone take me to the hospital?" When I fractured my skull, to my best recollection, (which if I'm honest is none since I had a pretty significant concussion,) I did not cry. This winter when I jumped off a rock and landed with my binding missing raping me by about a quarter of an inch giving me a goose egg on my nanny, not a yelp, although I'm sure I busted out a fuck or two. Yet for some reason every time I get hit in the face with the ball, I cry.

I carried my glasses back to my bag, splashed some water on my face, and checked for cuts. In tact, but teary I returned to the group.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what it is, I just cry every time I get hit in the face. It doesn't even really hurt."
The guy who kicked the ball was looking like he might try to hide inside of his own skin behind a sheep, but said, "Yeah, I do that too every time I get hit in the face."
"Yeah it sucks." said another guy.
"Yeah, me too." Said another.

So apparently we're all wusses and I've learned not to play soccer in glasses.

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