I'm a Try Athlete

My flag football team lost in the playoffs… again. Now, normally I would care a whole lot because I’m a competitive person and I HATE losing. But this time, I didn’t really have any expectations for the team, and so I shrug my shoulders and continue on. The only problem is that when I actually shrug my shoulders, I have a sharp pain in my chest. I think I may have dislocated a rib… from my sternum. (The last time I checked, that’s not normal.)

Anyone that knows me knows that I like sports. I like the thrill of competition. I like the excitement that comes with success. I like the anticipation that I just might see something that has never been done before.

Anyone that knows me also knows that my affinity for sports endows me with a magnetism for injury. Sprained wrists, pulled hamstrings, twisted ankles… bumps, bruises, scars… jammed fingers, dislocated ribs, strained ligaments… concussions, fat lips, and a broken nose. You name it, I probably hurt it.

But I, like many others, keep coming back for more. Are we athletes? We think we are. Are we idiots? Maybe. Are we quitters? Most definitely not. (Should we quit? We shouldn’t have even started.) As a tribute to all of you who almost won the State Title in high school, to all of you who played JV ball as seniors, and to all of you who ever tripped before crossing the finish line, I offer a way to erase all the disappointing yesterdays and once again hope for a promising tomorrow. Three words: Full-contact triathlons.

For those of you who don’t know what a triathlon is, (stop reading this, get into your Toy Story sheets, and tell your mom via text message that you’re ready to be tucked in. If she brings you cookies and milk, it will be the greatest achievement of your life.) it is an endurance sports event that includes swimming, cycling and running various distances. The standard "Olympic Distance" is 1.5 km swim, 40 km bike, and 10 km run. (For those of you uneducated in the metric system, that is the equivalent of 0.93 mile swim, 24.8 mile bike, and 6.2 mile run.)

My friend recently completed one last month. He said, “It is super lame. No one even got tackled. And when you try to tackle someone you get DQ'd.” (That’s ‘disqualified’ not ‘Dairy Queened’.) So all of us here at Barttimesnow (which is basically… me, myself, and I) have decided to help evolve the often boring triathlon world by creating the very first full-contact triathlon.

Although the total distance may vary between the “Olympic Distance” and the “Sprint Distance” (which is half of the “Olympic Distance”), the race will be just like any other triathlon… except now every competitor will be armed with a bucket of tennis balls. This will incorporate the ‘dodging’ element. Every competitor hit with a tennis ball will get 5 seconds added to their total time.

Some members of the Barttimesnow Alliance of Revamping Triathlons, aka the B.A.R.T., had reservations about allowing full-contact in the swimming portion of the race. (Okay, even I’m still laughing at that acronym.) Here is a sneak peak of their Alliance meeting:

I said, “How much contact is allowed? We definitely don’t want anyone drowning.”

Me responded with, “There is no room for sissies when forging ahead with a new sport.”

Myself scratched his head.

And after several minutes of silence, Me caved in. “Okay, fine. Water contact will be limited to leg pulling, kidney punches and dunking.”

I: Good... now on to the cycling. I think tire slashing should be allowed… but only if the slashing is done by organic/natural items found within the racing boundaries.

Me: Oh! I know you are itchin’ to wedge some sticks in some spokes!

I: Oh you know it... I also think we should make it mandatory that all cyclists have 'baseball card motorcycle noise makers' attached to the rear of the bike. If the noise makers fall off, they have to let Nitro, from American Gladiators, put them in an Ultimate Death Scorpion Headlock for 1 minute and 23 seconds.

Myself stopped scratching his head.

Me: Absolutely. The competitors have to keep track of their baseball card noise making devices or pay the price. Also I want that Michael Buffer guy who announces the wrestling matches to MC. And I want fireworks.

The B.A.R.T. has also decided that if this is going to be the sport of the future it must be the ultimate challenge. It will also test the mental abilities as well as the emotional stability of each contestant. To enter you must have family and friends compile a list of your most embarrassing moments and then as you race you will be taunted by an old man who will be given the list (and by ‘old man’ I mean Major Payne). You must also recite the Bill of Rights and do some basic mathematics after you complete the swim, but before you cross the finish line. (Upon further review we have decided to rotate from the Bill of Rights, the Declaration of Independence, and the Emancipation Proclamation... so every race you will have to recite something different.)

Now all we need is funding and some on call medics... (aka a plethora of paramedics).

If anyone has connections to the following companies/sponsors, please notify the B.A.R.T. as soon as possible: Nike for Women, Budweiser, and Oprah… Fisher-Price, Kellogs, and Miley Cyrus. Implementation will begin as soon as funding is received.

Dick and Rick Hoyt

Diss-claimer

At this time I think it is worth it to have a disclaimer. This is my blog so I can do whatever I feel like, gosh!

Disclaimer: Everything found on, in, or that is directly linked through this blog is the author's doing. (That's me.) Any videos, pictures, or proper nouns (or quotes by proper nouns) contained herein are used for entertainment purposes only. I have the right to edit, change, discard, add to, and/or withdraw any information I deem necessary. Also, any direct reference to American Gladiators is merited/desired/needed by all.

It is not my intent to be offensive or inaccurate in any way. (Except for when I make up words. But then I’ll tell you what it means, thus accurately canceling out the inaccuracy.) But it is important to know that the situations, persons, and/or affiliations referred to might possibly, kind of, be real, maybe... or they might not be. It is neither my responsibility, nor is it my desire to discern between the two. The reader can do that for himself/herself. My aim is to approach all events, ideas, thoughts, and/or happenings as they occur, occurred, or will occur from my perspective/outlook. Yes, I might talk about you. Yes, I might slight you... slightly. If you feel that any of the events about you are inaccurate or belittling, I would suggest that you address the author, me, and I will think about considering your opinion. If you receive no response from me, the author, within 1256 hours, I would suggest pretending that you are not real and that the events you are addressing never happened.

Also, to enhance the blogging experience/entertainment for all persons reading/following this blog, it is highly recommended/suggested that you actually say 'slash' whenever presented with the / symbol.

I will now proceed to amend my disclaimer because I know what that means and because I can.

Amendment 1, Article XXV, Section 3, Number 13 - No one will in any way, shape, or form downgrade, depreciate, run down, rip up, roast, slight, belittle, diss, denigrate, befoul, besmirch, spatter, stain, sully, malign, asperse, bad mouth, blacken, blister, calumniate, decry, defame, disparage, give black eye to, impugn, knock, libel, mudsling, put down, revile, scandalize, slander, tear down, traduce, and/or vilify the name, image, characteristics, play, and/or person of one, Steve Nash. Any person or persons found in violation of the afore mentioned Amendment 1 will be cut a million times with a small razor and left in the Sahara, most likely to die while a bazillion grains of sand fester your infected wounds. Well, I can't really do that. So you'll just be blocked and all comments will be removed.

We Are But Men... ROCK!

Football: a sport of grit, strength, and speed. A game of passion, determination, and perspiration. Starting with Friday Night Lights and continuing though Monday Night Football, you’ll never find four consecutive days with more hard-hitting, body-crunching, bone-splitting action than you will during autumn weekends on the grassy, green gridiron.

It’s a man’s sport. (Which man? Where is that man? What makes him a man? Or a man a man? Am I a man? What about He-man, merman, or woman? Man! ) You don’t just wake up one day and decide to play football. You have to be a man. A manly man.

Or you could be a wannabe man and wake up in your bed, alone (just like yesterday… and the day before… for the last 25 years), and tell your skinny, white, boney reflection that it's time to become a man. But without having the advantage of big, grumbly American Gladiators around, you decide to take matters into your weak, feeble, can-barely-lift-ten-pounds hands. You will search for your manhood.

After a scrumptious meal of eggs and toast, you put on your jacket and thank your mom as she ties your hood. You almost coolishly stroll out to your ’81 Honda (‘almost’ because you really don’t know what coolishly means, you think you heard Nicolas Cage use that word in Gone in 60 Seconds, but you’re not sure of that either because you’re not allowed to watch PG-13 movies) and run your hand across the hail-damaged hood. You then proceed to putter out of your neighbor-hood with the windows down blaring Boyz N da Hood.

From Main Street to University Avenue you scour the freshly mowed lawns and littered parks in search of man-life. (Is that Robin Hood?) And then you see it. You had only faintly heard of such a place before today… (mostly in chat rooms and blogs) but this was beyond anything any video game designer could… well… uh… design. The University intramural fields. (No, but really… Robin Hood wears tights, right? ‘Cause I swear… )

You never thought the uncoordinated and unathletic would one day share the same field as the speedy and agile. But somehow, in this magical world of flag football, the competition is leveled out. There are fat, old married guys, washed-up ex-high school ‘All-Americans’, and cocky, eighteen year old punks.

And there you stand… one of the uncoordinated and unatheletic, about to continue your journey from wannabe man to man. Your path: Football. (this wasn’t quite football… kind of pansyish actually, especially with the ‘no contact’ rule…) And, in your eyes, nothing could be more manly than prancing around like a fairy with a colorful belt around your waist playing grab-a**. (I mean, uh… grabbing flowers… uh, er… flags).

Thirsty for Thursday?

Thursday- the precursor for the weekend. As a general rule, if you have a good Thursday, you’re bound to have a good weekend. But Thursday usually flexes its I’m-still-a-week-day muscle, while staring you down like ‘Nitro’ from American Gladiators. There’s nothing that dampens your weekend-fever like a dose of Thursday to remind you that you still have eight hours of Friday to deal with before that five o’clock whistle.

It looks like this Thursday is turning out to be a clone of the previous two: a five dollar foot-long from Subway and the company of Thursday night basketball on TNT. As you’re about to settle into your usual crease in the couch, you remember that last week a girl invited you to a fondue party. Your know-it-all roommate thinks you should go. His suggestion brings two thoughts to your mind: will there be food? And will there be a girl? (And yes, you really asked yourself those two questions).

The apartment is spewing people out onto the balcony and down the stairs. Already sweating from boarding twelve blocks to get there, (you thought it might look cool if you walked into the party with a long-board in your hand, and now that you think about it, you could have driven and then walked in with a long-board in your hand, mostly because you don’t board) you step up to the muddled entry way. The heat from the sardinely packed bodies oozes against your face. You take one last breath of fresh air and step in.

Like an eel navigating the murky deep, you make your way past unfamiliar faces and damp bodies to plant yourself in a power stance in the center of the room. (Okay, so you’re slightly off-centered. But a quick step to the right will change all that.) A friend introduces you to a friend of a friend's friend. You can’t quite catch her name because of all the noise, but as you lean in to reassert your ears, you notice: she’s not too tall, not too short (both of which are extremely intimidating in their own respect), she has long, dark hair and dark eyes, and there is something intoxicating about that smile.

The conversation staggers itself between continual traffic and ongoing introductions. You decide that the guy with her is either a relative or a recent acquaintance. (Relative because of the reassuring, comforting gestures and glances that could only be given by a brother or cousin in the midst of an unfamiliar crowd, and acquaintance because of the mutually absent dedication to keep the others’ attention. And honestly, he's got nothin' on you.) After a few brief moments of awkward silence in a less than silent room, you decide it’s finally time...

(I wanted to apologize for two things: first, for not having finished this story. Its really kinda lame because (spoiler alert!) I end up hitting it off with this girl but don't get her number. Maybe I'm a pansy... or I really am that much of an idiot. And second, for constantly referring to American Gladiators. Well maybe not. I like Nitro.)

I really hope my teacher HAS to read this.

Congratulations to me for creating a blog. I was hoping that my wife would be the blogger of the family. But seeing as how she hasn't met me yet (aka I'm still single and living the dream) and that this is worth like 75 percent of my grade for class... I basically got suckered into doing something I would have rather not. Kind of like dance class and piano lessons. In other words... Enjoy. :)

So I told my friend Josh that I was 'ailing from a condition known as foosbackdeathedness'. He then asked me what foosbackdeathedness is. I was surprised he didn't know. This was my response: (and if you notice Josh spelled with an H thats okay... just a nickname)

I'm glad you asked Hosh. With symptoms that have puzzled health professionals for years, foosbackdeathedness has now been labeled by various doctors and surgeons around the world as "The most overrated disease known to mankind". Some even suggest it's not even a disease at all... just 'lower back pain' caused by playing three hours of ridiculous foosball. But as one who currently suffers from foosbackdeathedness I can tell you that if anything compares to ebola, this is it.

And to prove this blog really will be about nothing... Exibit A: a conversation with a classmate.


Bailey- My American Gladiator name is Death. Try and beat Death. Try.
Bart- Have you ever met Resurrection. He's one tough cookie in 'Assault'.
Bailey-but the thing is..he hasnt come yet. so for right now, im numba 1.
Bart-yes, he has
Bailey-not the 2nd time
Bart-so... people are still resurrected
he came the first time, he will come the second time, and he will be the ultimate champion
Plus, after he gets done with you, you wont exist
Bailey-i dont think you care that much about whatever it is im talking about as long as you make me lose lol
Bart-no but really... you said try and beat death... well death can be beaten
Bailey-fine.
Bart-its like paper scissors rock... but like ultimate paper scissors rock... so it would be called death--jesus--ressurrection
Bailey-do you think i dont know these things?
Bart-death kills jesus, jesus creates ressurrection, ressurrection obliterates death
Bailey-congratulations for beating death