Whatever the cause, be it ingrained to the very DNA of males, or a cultural thing that boys pick up at a very young age, but we seem fixated on any ball related sport. Be it baseball, football, soccer (football to Europe), basketball, whatever the name may be, most of the sports revolve around the mystery of that magical little sphere, otherwise known as The Ball.
We injure ourselves in pursuit of the game, heedlessly chasing The Ball. Native Americans made sports balls from animal bladders filled with air, or spherical stones and leather pocketed, and strapped staves that would evolve into Lacrosse. A game with its origins in combat, marking a bloody and violent past. The Mayans had a game much like soccer, where they would kick The Ball around a court to score goals in baskets, the origins of the game in kicking the decapitated head of the vanquished around in a victory dance. This is one such primal link from our animalistic and bloodthirsty baser selves, linked to sports, creating a voracious appetite for the game. It is no wonder that modern day players can become crazed, like a bloodied gladiator playing to the ravenous crowd. So it is no mystery that I would fall in love with the same pursuits, be it modern culture, heritage, or something locked in my very blood.
I have chased that magical sphere with reckless abandon, and at times childlike glee. Growing up, every kid on my block had some kind of Ball. Benny had a basketball; Corey had a baseball and glove; Jason had the kickball; I had the football. We would play various games, both established and pulled from the wandering and creative energies of our young minds.
When I went to the grocery store with my parents, I would often stop by a thick white wire cage, filled with Balls. The structure stretched to the ceiling, loaded to capacity with all colors, patterns and sizes of my childhood obsession. Like a giant gumball machine, it loomed over me with its cache of goods. There was a small cage door at the bottom from where you could pull your choice, fed like a hopper by the weight of the balls overloaded on top. I always had an eye for the marbled and brightly oclored ones. Little did I know, fate has a sense of humor and would use my tastes against me.
I never could convince my parents to get one of those cheap things, and eventually stopped asking. So you can imagine my baffled and pleasant surprise when I saw a bright red marbled Ball sitting in the grass on the side of my grandparents’ house. Like the center of a bulls eye, The Ball was my target. Or maybe like the cape of a matador, it was coaxing me to charge, and charge I did.
I ran down the gentle slop of the front lawn, leapt over the exposed roots of the large maple and hurled towards my target, building speed along the way. The red sphere was centered in my cross hairs as I lined up my kick. I was going to sail that Ball to distant corners of an unknown yard. My slow pitch kickball home run, just within reach.
My lead left food dropped just below and to the left of The Ball, lining up my running follow through kick. As my right food traveled forward, a smile crept across my face as my chin hit my chest, just before my foot collided with The Ball. Collided being the operative word, because upon contact with the red marbled surface, my converse clad foot stopped abruptly. My eyes went wide with shock, as the lightning bolt of pain suddenly erupted forth from my foot to my head and the smile on my face fell into a teeth-grating grimace.
The force and momentum from my foot transferred to the shiny surface of The Ball I thought I was kicking, and three empty finger holes rolled up into view. They sat on the face of the bowling ball, mocking me with its calm appearance. I could only laugh through my tears and gritted teeth at the irony of it all. What the hell were the chances? I mean, in my wildest daydreams, I would never imagine someone leaving a bowling ball in the open yard. Either it was the drunk neighbor’s late night game of backyard bowling that carried The Ball from their yard to my grandparents’, or a cruel joke. I never found out for sure. What I do know is that my toe is left in the shape of a bald albino monkey knuckle. It is hooked and gnarled to the point that I often run on the nail of that toe, and losing the nail isn’t at all an uncommon occurrence.
The underlying lesson, of which I am reminded with each passing step in life, is look before you kick.
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