Powder Puff

Every year they have a powder puff football game out here, and I never participate. In addition to the fact that I am seldom around for the game, because it conflicts with a BYU game I'm attending, I also don't let people throw balls at me. I have an irrational fear of finger injuries, and it has kept me from participating in any activity that involves things being tossed around in the air.

This year the game is scheduled for December, and when the girls in charge of recruiting came hustling up to me at linger longer, and demanded to know why I hadn't signed up I had no excuse. What was I supposed to say to them? I'm afraid I'll hurt a finger? It even sounds ridiculous in my head, there's no way I was going to try and explain that to someone. I tried telling them that I've never played football before, and I'm sure I would only be a liability to the rest of the team. That excuse was quickly dismissed on the grounds that I understand football, and I am therefore more qualified than most. Kind of a stretch if you ask me, but I agreed to allow them to put me on the sign-up sheet.

The first practice was Thursday night, and I just couldn' t bring myself to do it. I came home, and watched TV while one of my roommates attended practice. She came home and reported to me that I would be expected at the Saturday morning practice. I secretly had no intention of attending that practice either. Saturday morning rolled around, and I went to my early hair appointment, and came home fully intending to crawl back in my bed and lay there watching football on TV. The problem is that I'm not really a go back to bed kind of person, and after about 5 minutes I broke down and fired off a text message to find out where the practice was being held.

I showed up 30 minutes late, and was on the field for less than 5 minutes before I started fretting about potential finger injuries, and silently cursing myself for showing up. I made no move to get in line for the drill they were running, instead I just stood there watching the other girls, while all those unpleasant, and stifled memories of high school PE classes started to slowly creep back. Despite the fact that I had yet to do anything but stand there, I was already feeling self-concious and awkward. I had slipped right back into the mindset of the underweight, nerdy weakling, with frizzy hair, and hand-me down gym clothes, who firmly believes that the gym teacher who shouts out "don't be afraid of the ball! It can't hurt you!" is a liar. A few of my friends jogged up and said something like "come on, aren't you going to play?" and I just stood there and said something very non-commital like "uhhhh...I think I'm just going to watch for a minute."

Of course the inevitable moment of forced participation came. The guys, (our coaches) switched drills, and numbered us off into groups. I made sure to take my spot at the very back of the line for the passing drill, to further delay things as long as possible. All the while wondering what in the world possessed me to leave the comfort of my own home to put myself through this torture. Fortunately I noted that no one in the group seemed to be putting in a superstar performance, and I took some comfort in that. I eventually made it to the front of the line, and by then had determined that there was some slight possibility that with an earnest effort I may be able to prevent complete humiliation. So I ran out there and turned around to catch the ball, just as our little coach had instructed, and stuck my hands out to catch the ball that was now flying through the air towards me. At the last second I freaked out and while I made a noise that sounded something like a squealing piglet sort of batted the ball down. The coach yelled out some little line of encouragement about doing a great job sticking to the route (the route that consisted of about a 5 yard run in a straight line to a little orange cone to signal the point where you turn to catch the ball), and then moved along to the next girl.

The second time to the front of the line was my blessing in disguise. I made a genuine effort to grab the ball that time, and jammed my finger, and I jammed it hard. I suffered the dreaded finger injury. I did not catch the ball, but it was the best thing that could have happened to me. My personal worst case scenario had come to fruition, and it hurt. I shook my hand a little bit, and it felt okay, so I decided that I would not be permanently disabled. I am pleased to report that I am in no way a great receiver, or really even a good one, but I did manage to haul in the majority of my passes after that. The finger incident somehow served to shock me back into present day, and I finished practice and left without feeling like I embarrassed myself. In fact, I very much enjoyed it after that.

Later that afternoon Lynn and I were watching the BYU game, when I started to notice that the jammed finger was feeling a little fat. It continued to swell, so at Lynn's instruction I iced it repeatedly, and took some anti-inflammatory stuff that my roommate gave me. By the time I went to bed that night it looked like a little sausage. The skin was stretched so tight that it was shiny. I took pictures, but I took them with my phone before the finger reached it's maximum level of puffiness, so they might not be impressive. I started to worry that perhaps it was broken, but one of my roommates came over and thumped on it a little and said that if it had been broken that would have hurt, which it didn't. Since then the swelling has subsided considerably, but it's still a little fat, and kind of stiff and sore. It has also developed purplish-black bruises that run all up and down the side. It looks like someone decided to beat my finger, but I think it will be healed up for Thursday night's practice. Pictures to follow.