The high school varsity jock’s ego dies a slow death. I’m sure you were the star of your team in high school, champ.
However, you don’t need to gallivant around the B-league softball field after you hit a bomb, pumping your fist like you’re former Los Angeles Dodger Kirk Gibson.
There is nothing wrong with competition; that’s how intramural sports are supposed to work. When you start trash talking and developing a deep personal hatred for the opponent, then the line is being crossed.
In high school, you could flagrantly foul the opposing point guard with a primal “Get out of my house!” and get away with it because he went to some other school a half an hour away and you’d never see him again.
However, in Fairfield intramurals, that random jerk who keeps sucker-punching you while you’re running receiver routes is probably going to end up next to you at the urinal.
More than likely, he’ll show up at your townhouse trying to score free booze.
Life here is awkward enough; spare us the trouble and just play the game. This is Fairfield, not Maryland; we do neither crab cakes nor football, so calm down.
Think this mental complex is just limited to showing off or bearing a grudge? If you wear gloves and cleats to flag football, jump aboard. Bring your helmet to floor hockey; don’t worry, there’s room for you too.
Your gel-soaked hair complimented by your Air Jordan headband and matching sleeveless tee makes you the intramural equivalent of the obnoxious guy who brings a metal detector to the beach.
You may be having a little more fun, but everyone else is laughing at your expense.
Please do, I insist, quote random rules in the middle of game play, so you can get five extra yards downfield. Once they see the instant replay, I’m sure the officials will convene and reset the game clock and you can continue your drive.
But wait – this isn’t the NFL.
The ref hasn’t read the rules in years and is altogether too busy talking to the female spectators to call any penalty that doesn’t involve blood. Plus, if complaining to the officials doesn’t work for Tim Duncan, how well do you think you’re going to fare?
I don’t need to hear about how you could totally walk onto the baseball or basketball team here. Either do it or don’t do it; you’re not proving anything with your unabashed bragging, and you’re probably offending everyone who puts in the time and effort to be on those teams.
This feels like I’m listening to one of those “Real Men of Genius” sometimes: Today we salute you, Mr. Intramural-superstar-captain-of-the-B-league-basketball-team.
Your defensive dominance of the 5’4″ point guard of “Dirk’s Digglers” is unparalleled in intensity. When you block this wimp’s final shot, do you shake his hand?
No, you grunt and flex like you’re getting your swell on at the gym, so everyone can see how awesome and jacked you are.
So, crack open an ice-cold Muscle Milk, Mr. Sultan-of-Meaningless-Swat, as nobody takes pride in glorified pick-up games quite like you.
Leave a Reply