I spent the day at Zilker Park attending a fabulous SGI picnic. There was food of all types (sushi and dumplings on one plate, pork sausage and tater salad on another—you know how I do!). A cover band played a plethora of Johnny Cash songs. African drummers and dancers inspired a couple dozen of us to stand up and dance along. A small, middle-aged Asian woman sang an acoustic version of Rianna’s “Umbrella” impressively well.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, there was kickball.
For those who maintain that poker is not a sport, fine, my favorite sport is kickball. I played the shit out of some kickball back on the Westwind cul-de-sac back in my younger days. Since the onset of adulthood, it’s been hard to find enough willing people to get a game together. I’m not exaggerating at all when I say that I was elated to participate in the SGI pickup game.
About five minutes into the game, as I ran to first base, I got nailed with the ball and fell over. Being hit with the ball didn’t really hurt, but I was stunned and fell flat on my back. And of course, I exhibited the involuntary reaction of sticking my arm out behind me in attempt to break my fall.
Now I have a giant gash on my right palm, much like the one from two months ago that had just finished healing. That one happened when Curtis offered to carry me back to the Fourth Street parking garage after we had already walked back to Prague from Mugshots on Gus’s 30th Birthday. (For non-Austinites, that’s a long way, especially when you’re wearing heels.) Although it was kind of Curtis to offer, he didn’t quite have the strength (or sobriety?) to make good on it because he stumbled forward and dropped me after walking only a few feet.
I actually remember looking at my hand this morning, thinking, “Boy, I sure am glad I don’t have a bloody gash on my hand anymore.”
Oh well, I couldn’t think of a better way to reopen the wound than with a great game of kickball. (Sorry Curtis, as much as I know you’d like to drop me again…)