I Am Still Me 

I was at the gymnastics gym tonight and I saw this guy, Patrick, who I know from the beach. Now the last time I had an injury that counted, it was a knee-injury that resulted from an intense game of in-and-out style dodgeball, and this injury was courtesy of one Patrick, that same Patrick…

It was just after 2 PM, hot, and we were both sprinting hard across the sand-court for the ball. Athlete sense told me we were going to get to the ball at the same time, so I slid-tackled it out of bounds so that Pat couldn’t scoop the ball first and peg me out. Meanwhile, Pat dove in attempts to scoop the ball first and peg me out… catching me behind the knee full force with all his weight, momentum and shoulder—

Twist—

Sprain—

Fuck.

It wasn’t too bad, though. Just a little ace brace slip-on and take it easy on the sand for a month or so. And he certainly wasn’t out of line in game play or a bad sport. It’s just one of those things that happens. What you need to know is that he doesn’t suck: He’s good.

I can handle him in team sports. I can handle you in team sports. I can handle almost anyone in almost any team sport.

But he kicks my ass at gymnastics (for now).

And it had been a while since we had met on any field, court, lot or other place where sporting things go down.

In gymnastics, however, you compete against yourself. Which is fine, if you like that sort of thing.

But, at the end of gymnastics, we do conditioning. One of the exercises is the dreaded scooter exercise (which, incidentally, I happen to like). This requires one to get into push up position, put your feet on a square scooter and use your arms to cross the length of the floor and back without stopping.

I did my down and back and so had Patrick and everyone else which meant there were scooters open.

“Did everyone go?” asked Patrick. I nodded. “Want to go again with me?” he prodded.

“I would but I’m back tomorrow, so I’m trying not to bust my arms out too bad because I’d like to finally drop the spot on my backhandspring, which probably won’t happen, but I’m going to try.”

So as I’m talking Patrick is all nodding and like whatever, “You wanna race—”

“No way you’re going to kick my ass,” I said. But I was already halfway to the floor, which meant “Yes,” and that I didn’t think I’d embarrass myself, and he was halfway to the floor as well—

“Down and back.” (I don’t ask questions when honor is at stake.)

“Yeah”

“OK GO!”

And I busted ass down, and I busted ass back, and I dove; but I didn’t even need to:

I totally won by half a length.

“How did you do that?!” He said, panting.

“I am freakishly good at most things.” I panted back.

To his credit, this story is only good because Pat is one fit guy.

Anyway, you should see me crab walk. You’ll be watching the tape and you’ll be all, “Is this shit on fast forward?” But I’ll be like, “No, you foolio: I’m just that good.” Yes, I was the girl who would race you to the front door. I didn’t win all the time. It was more that I like to play, to compete...

Yet, after having been removed from my hometown, rabblerousing peers, it had been awhile…

Had I changed?

No:

I’ll push it fifty fold if you go against me.

Because I am still me.

Zing!

The end.

And that, my mofos, is what we here at JSDC call a true story.

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