Playing Soccer

I love taking breaks. At times, I purposely undertake arduous tasks just for the satisfaction of some ensuing momentary relief. It's like taking a dump after a gruelling 18-course meal served by a persistent Aunty.

At other times, I navigate toward activities where there is a required break, but little work required on my part, because I cannot be trusted to do the work properly.

I used to play soccer. For a pretty long time, actually. I was woefully unskilled, though supposedly that didn't matter; the coach would always enthusiastically declare that it wasn't about winning, but about teamwork and having fun. Then while rotating players, the coach would always happen to sit me out for two quarters. That's half the fucking game.

But I didn't mind. I was performing a necessary function in this operation, and I, too, deserved a break. Obviously, "teamwork and having fun," for the dexterous majority, involved certain curtailments of activity for the bumbling minority. If the coach didn't sit me out and I fearfully stood there on the corner of the field, dodging and trembling at any person or ball that came within any reasonable proximity of my being, "the team" would be pissed. I had been placed on the team to fulfill a numerical requirement, but I was the weakest link. It would be unfair to require that others endure my infirmity for the miniscule possibility of my improvement, when, in my absence, so much collaborative triumph was abound. My role was to patiently hover on a dirt mound until I could go claim my Twinkies and Capri Sun at half time. And this, I could handle.