Well, this is embarassing...

Steve and I joined a coed soccer team about a year ago, at his suggestion. He thought it would be something fun for us to do together, other than play house and worry about kids and bills.

Trouble is, I don’t play soccer. But he does and he loves it – he loves the physicality of it, the being outdoors in the mud and rain, and the way his body hurts all over the day after (mine usually hurts for about a week). He says it makes him feel alive. I don’t mind it, really. I like the team – nice, fun, young folks (not one of them over 35, I’m sure) with interesting jobs and busy lives and maybe one child between them. I bet they each have a Facebook page, too.

It turns out, while I’m not in love with the sport – and certainly don’t exhibit an inclination toward a promising future – I’m remarkably adept at not getting injured. Which is saying more than it sounds like, really, because we’re chronically short on women players and the rules require at least five on the field at all times. It’s more often than not that we girls play the whole game, while the men have the luxury of subbing out as often as they need, shouting encouragement and suggestions liberally from the sidelines.

Unfortunately, Steve doesn’t have my built-in ability to avoid injury. He was out more than in for the first season, with ripped hamstrings and torn quads, and his knees (both have had arthroscopic surgery over the last couple of years) were iffy at best. But, he persevered and came up with a stretching routine that has been working fairly well. Until last night, he was on a pretty good injury-free streak. Until last night.

Steve came running...

(I love to watch him run: he keeps his head and chest forward and his arms churning rhythmically at his sides, with long, even strides – though, because he’s big, and let’s face it, old, he often churns right on by the ball and his opponent, who jukes it past, around, or through his legs. Did I mention how Young these folks are?)

...up to the ball, intent on an amazing defensive play in front of our goal, and he never saw The Beast approaching. This guy had to be 6’ 5” tall and 230 pounds, big guy, and agile, too. For his throw-ins, he first did a round-off flip, flinging the ball a full 50 yards, I’m sure. Steve and The Beast met the ball and each other in mid air, and Steve did a fancy pirouette and flipped to the ground, landing square on his hand, wrist bent back. To the rest of us, it looked like they’d konked heads, but I guess not. The Beast lumbered off and Steve was out of the game for a while. He came back in towards the end of the game, until he got kicked in the calf…

On the way home, we examined the rapidly swelling tissue on his right hand. “Looks like you sprained it,” I said. “It hurts,” he grinned. After a beer and some Aleve, he went off to bed with several ice packs, snoring blissfully.

This morning (pay attention, this is the embarrassing part), Steve got up as usual at 6:15 am to make the Two Ungrateful Boys their lunches. As he headed downstairs, he called over his shoulder, “I might need some help, Rin, I can’t move my hand.”

Humpf. It’s not really my thing, getting up at 6:15 am to help with lunches. Instead, I sometimes take on wardrobe patrol: “Where’s your coat? It’s raining, you need a coat. I bought you three coats over the last year and you can’t find one of them? Why don’t you wear my coat then, it’s hanging up over there. You need a hat. What’s wrong with that hat? Then pick a different one, this one looks fine and it’s warm.” It’s exhausting, but I can be pretty helpful in the mornings.

I got up to help. Now, I said I’m immune to injury, but last night I got my toe stepped on by The Beast, and it was pretty sore this morning. I did make the trip downstairs, but it hurt to stand at the counter and wonder what to make for Andrew, and I wasn’t even really up for the wardrobe game with Sam. Back to bed. Steve made the sandwiches by himself and, a little more slowly than usual, got ready for work and off he went.

I just got a call from Steve. He said his arm is broken and he’ll be in a cast for six to eight weeks.

The worst of it is, he won’t be able to play in the championship game next week, but I will. Me and four other girls, likely.

There’s a bruise building on my big toe, I swear.
__________