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

Launching the Past

I recently ran into an old friend of mine, Jordan Schultze. He is a year older than me, which made my one year of school at Fairview Elementary the Dali-lama of school years. Jordan and I had been friends for a long time. We liked sports (mostly Bo Jackson... and the Raiders), super fast-dubbed cassette tapes, Weird Al Yankovic, firecrackers, and trampolines. I figured entering the 5th grade at Fairview wouldn’t be so bad if the J-man was around. You see, my parents had bought some land and built a house and so I had to transfer schools. Kinda freaky for a 10/11 year old kid.

I had NO idea how good Fairview would be to me. I remember the first day of school, getting off the bus, and walking on the playground. There were two swings, one slide, and no jungle-gym. The playground consisted of cement, little pebbles, and goat-heads. There was a game of football going on and they needed one more guy. I volunteered myself knowing that my fate depended on my play. We huddled up, the quarterback, Brandon Myrick, told me he was going to throw me the ball. (Good thing I had my thinly-clothed gloves that had the sticky grips on the palms.) The ball was hiked, I made a move, got open, and caught the ball. I sprinted left, then right. Only one kid to beat: the unusually large latino, Nathan Vigil. (The kid had a mustache.)

I spun, then stopped, and zipped by his outstretched hands into the open field. I felt like the Road Runner as I ran, rocks flying from the soles of my shoes. I touched the fence. I scored! But… there wasn’t a celebration in the end zone. Everyone was pointing and laughing at Nathan, who was now near midfield. Brandon ran over to me and said in unbelief, “You just outran Nate Vigil. You outran the Nate-Dawg!” Never in his life had Nate been unable to catch a fellow student. Never in my life would I forget this day.

Instantly, I became a 5th grade celebrity. A star, a hero, a legend. Because Fairview didn’t have any equipment, kids played sports. (I was blazing fast and could catch and throw.) I was picked first. And kids let me cut in the lunch line. I was even recruited by the 6th graders to play with them during recess instead of with the 5th graders. I had friends in the 4th, 5th and 6th grades (Fairview only had those grades as its sister school, Lebhart, had the K - 3rd graders). In other words, I was the David Duchovny of 5th graders (that was the year he dated Madonna).

I mentioned before that I was only at Fairview for a year. The School District made me transfer to Dildine Elementary because it was closer to my house, thus robbing me of any positive experiences I could have had in 6th grade. (I hated 6th grade and I hated Mrs. Harju and I hated Dildine.) But talking to Jordan again brought back so many wonderful memories.

Jordan: You wouldn't be Bart Badbury Son of Lyle and Kathy, Brother to Brett and Blake, and former Wyoming Herford Ranch 2-on-2 baseball champ, would you?

Bart: Oh I would be... and I am... You wouldn't be Jordan Schultze... son of Don and Cathy, Brother to Josh and Cate, owner of one super water balloon launcher used to pelt Natalie Hales, extreme non-padded tackle football champion, and former Oriole GREAT... would you? (Jordan and I played little league. I was on the Dodgers/A’s… he was on the Orioles.)

Jordan: Bartholomew Air Gadbury! Well I can't comment on any alleged involvement in any fiasco(s) involving Natalie Hales or this possibly fictitious water balloon apparatus, but yes all those other accomplishments are mine. It's a crying shame we have not had the privilege of mopping the floor with any sports competitors in probably close to a decade.

Bart: Well you should comment on the aforementioned 'apparatus' because any connection to said item, whether imagined or real, brings back some of the fondest memories of my childhood. (Now, honestly, it is probably one of the greatest stories EVER) And now that I think about it... the Wilmarths were some of the most fierce sixth graders I knew... but if we were to have a reunion of our little clan, I'm sure we would do the same mopping we did ten years ago... except with a different scent... maybe more lemony fresh? Go BO JACKSON AND THE RAIDERS! (The Wilmarths, Matt and Aaron, were Jordan’s 6th grade buddies. Almost every weekend we would play tackle football with our little clan of 10. We OWNED the Wilmarths!)

Jordan: While I can neither confirm nor deny any involvement in certain shady water balloon dealings, nor can I confirm or deny the existence of any improvised latex-based h2o projectile accelerating apparati, or any such implements for that matter, I will say that if I ever require decisive action to be taken towards the stoppage a front bike tire from spinning on it's axis, you are the man I will call.

Bart: Hey... so you know how we loved the Raiders in elementary school... well if you don't, Bo knows.

Jordan: I know Bo knows. Bo knows Baseball. Bo knows football. Bo knows the pump has got the airbag. Bo might even know who shot JFK... Let's start a business and or sports team together. It'll be fun! Plus with our combined power we will be able to crush anyone who stands in our way!

Bart: Honestly... how about the PSA... Professional Softball Association... I really think we could go somewhere with that. Seeing as how we have baseball skills out the wazoo. Speaking of... remember when you were the Orioles and I was the Athletics and we beat your trash? Also... nothing makes me happier than thinking of the Wilmarth beatdowns on the gridiron... no one could touch me I was too blazing fast. Oh... business idea: we sell your old inhalers. Or we could be hired as hitmen... except we use water ballons and your launcher. And we could partner up with Natalie Hales look-alikes and put on a real show (please tell me what you remember of that blessed day) Or we could high-speed-dub Peter Cetera and have people jump on the trampoline. They would pay big bucks.

Jordan: AH hahah the infamous water balloon incident! Man we booked it outta there so fast it was inhuman! I was thinking we could have slam dunk contests off your bed using a door-mounted nerf hoop, with intermissions to taunt Blake. I like the softball idea. i haven't played that in years, but I'm betting we could still work Josh and Brett pretty hard, and most likely all the Willmarths too. Yeah I remember when you were the A's and I was the orioles. Yeah I literally WAS the orioles. Dad blasted retards.

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).