03 May 2009

How southern colleges teach you to catch a baseball...

I've tried to take pictures of the bruise, but it's just not possible. I don't want to elicit pity out of you, and I'm not sure I want a picture of my bruised up thigh all over the internets, so let me just tell you what happened.

On Friday night, after what can only be described as a frustrating week at work, I was rewarded by a baseball game with Ms. Jordan Baker, my friend Retro, and his significant other. We were there to see the Nationals play (get their asses (arses for the British readers)) kicked by the St. Louis Cardinals.

We were sitting in home-run territory.

I enjoyed my pretzel and coke and chit-chatted and watched the game.

We got to the top of the 8th inning and then Harris did it. He hit a two run homer for the Nationals. I heard the crack of the bat, and I was convinced that the outfielder for the Cards would catch the ball handily.

He didn't.

He didn't catch it because that hit was a home run.

The ball went sailing over the green fence and landed squarely (roundly?) on my thigh.

I didn't really see the ball coming because I was leaning into Retro screaming. Apparently, I was so well trained by southern schooling, I didn't even spill my drink. It's second nature to me now.

It took me about ten seconds to realize that the ball was next to me as I was yelling expletives mostly due to the surprise and sting of the ball. Thank goodness for the cheers as no one needed to hear my swearing.

Fortunately, everyone (really just one man) around me felt so bad that I got hit by the ball, that I was able to keep it.

Yes, I was on the jumbotron and even on the local cable news for everyone to see. I was (and still am) a little mortified. Fortunately, I was wearing a super cool red jacket and a white Nationals hat, so I looked every part the baseball fan. Megarita even said that I looked chic. Her words, not mine.

My purple, blue and slightly green bruise still hurts--and I'm glad that I don't wear shorts because I would have to explain my injury every time I saw someone, or people would surely think that I had enemies as cruel as Nancy Kerrigan's.

I now have a major league baseball.

I'm going to view this as super lucky, like when a bird poops on you, only there's a bruise and it hurts. :)

I called my parents and my grandma (baseball fans) and told them of my good fortune. My mother, of course, was worried about the bruising and my dad and grandma want me to bring the baseball next time I see them.

Oh, I will. But I'm not giving it to anyone. I took this one for the team. My team. Ha.


mysterygirl! said...

Don't forget the internet. You're all over the internet. ;)

cs said...

Since when are birds pooping on you lucky?

Velvet said...

It could be worse. It could have hit you in the tit. Try explaining that one!

Washington Cube said...

I think this is a very lucky omen indeed. You could become the team lucky charm. "Aim it for her thigh!"

Jenni said...

I can't believe I've gone 33 years not knowing that when a bird poops on you it's good luck.

Great story! You should post a picture of the baseball! :)