Throw / Catch.
I don’t know what it is. I’ve never had much interest in the physical pursuits. I don’t know why. My Grandfather (don’t even get me started on that grand old bastard. There’s a permanent blog in it) continues to study and practice Art decades after he retired from teaching it. And has read Everthing. Maybe it is from him. Or maybe it is because I am not tall and built like a pencil.
I pass by the waist-high wall of the back-garden that belongs to one of our neighbours. In attendance are several children playing football and, at the bottom of the garden, several Dads observing. Adopting the classic stance. Legs wide, arms crossed aside from the right hand which clutches a can of Stella Artois.
The ball gets away from them. And sails over the wall. Toward me.
I start to panic. I may be required to Do Something.
In slow motion the ball heads toward me.
Assorted Children: Mate. MATE. Can you get our ball?
I reach out to catch it. It scrapes my hands and begins bouncing downhill.
I tried to catch it. Hence I am now committed. I go running after it. I catch it. And walk back to their garden.
I attempt to drop-kick the ball and miss. My foot flails in mid-air whilst the ball bounces away. Again. Once more I run and catch it.
Accepting my limitations, I now throw it over the wall. Well. I say over. It clips the top of the wall and bounces back toward me.
I duck so it does not smack me in the face.
And then go running after it. AGAIN.
I then HAND it to one of the children.
Child: [With tears in his eyes] Yeah. Thanks a lot.
Parent-type: [Desperately trying to breath normally and slightly doubled-up] Yeah. Cheers for that.
Me: Um. Yeah.
I proceed to the Local Shop.
Where things actually get worse.
To be continued.