Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Falling to pieces

In my mind, I am between 18 and 22. My body tells me otherwise, as I recover from the season finale of ball hockey in the men’s over 30 league.
My wife’s last words to me as I left the house were “don’t get hurt!” which loosely translates into, “I’m not interested in fielding any more late night calls from the emergency department”.
Yes, it’s true, we have had the following conversations:
“Where are you? Its one am.”
“I’m in emerg. I caught a skate and ran into the boards, but don’t worry, the doctor thinks my ribs are just bruised”. (Four broken ribs)

“Where are you?”
“I’m in emerg. Took a slapshot in the eye, but don’t worry, the specialist says…”
“Specialist! Jesus Christ…”
“Yeah they called him in from home. He says the eye will be fine.” (Lacerated cornea)

For dramatic effect, I cite the worst case scenarios of course. Generally, the inquisition is more limited to “why are you limping?” or “why were you in the half-pipe in the first place?”
This is inevitably followed by “I don’t think you’re supposed to mix advil and bourbon while you’re in the hot tub”.

Back to ball hockey. The floor is unforgivingly hard, the ball even more so and to top it off, there was a deluge of some sort of horrible precipitation bordering between freezing rain and sleet. (I took my touque off in the third period and instantly developed a level five ice cream headache)
All this leads to the back ache this morning. I was forced to delve into my underworld sources for pharmaceuticals.
“Hey man…does you wife still work for Pfizer? Does she have any of those sample packs of Robaxicet Platinum left?”
“No? Damn…”
“Hey man…remember when you did your back in? You got any of those T3’s left?”
“No? Damn…”
At this age, most of my acquaintances have some quality expired meds leftover from various vasectomy’s, mcl/acl surgery and migraine episodes. Tis a sad day when we progress from recreational chemistry to recuperation. (I’ve been told that one mean little kidney stone can waste a good morphine buzz.)
I ended up with a lowly 200 mg ibuprofen. No addictive properties, no caffeine, not even any side affects. It’s the Coors Light of pain medication.

And so the battle rages on. The 22 year old brain is a bit of a bugger. He tells the 42 year body, “buddy, everything’s fine…just give’er.” The 42 year old body, ever willing, dutifully continues to pay the price.
Anyway…gotta get some rest.
Sign up for indoor soccer is tomorrow.

Monday, 28 November 2011

All purpose permission form

In the wake of the startling news that an elementary school was banning balls from the playground, as a parent it worried me that potential litigation is stopping children from developing valuable hurling and (more importantly) dodging skills. It’s not that I want my son to get his nose bloodied by a frozen tennis ball but I do at least want him to have the opportunity to do so. If you weigh the odds I’m sure he could get in at least two dozen recesses of full-tilt ball hockey, before little Jimmy hits him in the face with an errant slap shot. I don’t have a lawyer on speed dial, ready to dismantle little Jimmy, the school board, and the ball manufacturer but rather I picture him shaking it off,  stuffing some school approved 80 grit  brown paper towel in his nose, and getting back out for the last five minutes to score the winning goal.  If he’s lucky, he might not take one in the chops until sixth grade.
But these are strange bubble wrapped times we live in; times where a parent is made to feel uncomfortable for letting a child play. Because of this I thought it necessary to draft an all-purpose permission form for my child that would cover him for a multitude of otherwise forbidden activities.  His mother and I are willing to take the extreme risk that in the event he should ever actually want to go outside and play, he could be susceptible to injury ranging from a scrape to blunt force trauma. Cross my heart and hope to die, I swear I will not launch a massive law suit if he gets kicked in the shins by your kid.
 I hereby give permission for my child to: bring his hockey stick, baseball glove, ball and bat to school, play tackle football without full pads, catch a ride home on different bus with his friend, play touch tag, ride on the cart at Home Depot, come into the Beer Store with me, throw snowballs (not iceballs, those are deadly), jump on any trampoline anytime, go tobogganing with or without a helmet, skateboard in your parking lot, play street hockey, go on the field trip – that’s right, any field trip - I’m sure its partly educational, have his photo taken, celebrate Christmas, not celebrate Christmas, say the Lord’s prayer if he feels the need, fight back if a bully is pummeling him, cross the border with his mother who is not trying to abduct him but in fact just wants to take him to Florida, eat peanuts in the privacy of our home, swing on the monkey bars, run in the halls of the hotel, eat from the adult buffet, and lastly, I give him permission to participate. You heard me, participate. Really it’s fine. If he gets hurt playing basketball, we’ll chalk it up to a learning experience, and the next time you see him, it won’t be in court, but back on the court.

Sunday, 27 November 2011

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