It’s fascinating how time transforms priorities. Fresh out of college, I would join men’s leagues to win (lol). I would reflect on the game afterwards and ponder how I could improve for next game to achieve my ultimate goal:
a championship to be the league’s leading offensive foul drawer. Now, over five years removed from my glory days, I just want to get my fucking heart rate up and avoid spraining an ankle. Shameful, I know. Occasionally, I’ll project the stresses of everyday life on the court in the form of a well-placed elbow to the chin of an opposing player with a particularly frustrating face. So I’ve started incorporating assault into my game, which is nice. Some games I won’t even go, not because I can’t, but because I have to make a transfer on the subway. That’s how little I now value the game I once love, one fucking train transfer is the difference between a workout and going home to take a gravity bong to the face. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
This video does a particularly nice job of conveying the utter disgrace of trying to conjure up some semblance of competitive juices when your body is starting to shape up like an ice cream sandwich and you’re spending halftime ripping Parliaments in the parking lot.
When will I learn that it’s just time to move on and let myself go.
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