Balls...

When I was 16, all I dreamed about was balls. Well, actually I dreamed about pro baseball players but to highlight my immaturity, I just wanted to say a sentence with the word "balls" in it.

I was a full on stage 5 clinger when it came to MLB baseball players and anyone with a pulse.  My mom was totally on board with fueling my obsession of marrying a professional ball player by taking me to a Jays game at least once a week. Unbeknownst to many, she had a little secret obsession of her own...black men. And more specifically Joe Carter who played for the Blue Jays at the time. So her ebony and ivory fantasy worked to my advantage since it gave me the opportunity to catch so many games.
*Side note- I'm not sure if my mom's aware she married the whitest, palest, most freckled Scottish man on the planet but he's a far cry from Joe Carter. She once tried to hang a poster of Joe Carter over their bed after the World Series, until my father walked in and told her (in his scottish accent) "take that the fuck down"

Back to my story...

Sadly, at the Jays home opener on April Fools day 1998, my obsession with baseball turned into fear and our mother/daughter fantasy of tag-teaming pro ball players ended. Here's how it went down...or shall I say...how I went down. (*When I just wrote the sentence about me going down, it occurred to me that I've spent a good portion of my childhood/adult life on the floor either incapacitated or doing something gross.) 

Home openers were a big deal for my mom and I, but on the day of the game I had a little thing called "school" getting in the way of me going since it was a 1pm start time. So my mom called my school and told them I was sick. That was my cue to stuff my bra, put on my white eyeliner, draw my lipliner way outside of my lips to make them look bigger, pick up my two friends, and head out to the game.

Now any good slut knows that if you get to the games early enough to catch batting practice, that dramatically increases your odds of fucking a player getting an autograph so we OBVI did that. As my friends and I were standing down by the 3rd base line we saw some players coming towards us for autographs. It was at that point I began to prepare for the moment I would meet my future husband...that meant, tits out (pfft, I had no breasts) hair to the side, and that I must get my sharpie in hand. I realized quickly as they got closer that I didn't have my sharpie ready so in a moments  panic, I turned to my girlfriend Michelle to ask her to give me a pen and then....that was it....BLACKHAWK DOWN.

I HAD JUST BEEN HIT IN THE HEAD WITH A LINE DRIVE.
Wiki definition of a line drive:  in baseball is a type of batted ball, sharply hit, and on (or slightly above a level trajectory)
Nanners definition of a line drive:  the ball being hit really fucking hard into the side of my head.

After my brief journey toward the white light, I finally opened my eyes to find myself being cradled in the arms of one very creepy stranger on the floor of the stadium. His name was (read in slow-mo for effect)"Joooooohhhhhhnnnnnnn", which is how I heard it in my haze. For a split second, I thought I was dead. I could barely hear and everything was blurry. I remember thinking, "Is this man John really Jesus? Am I in Jesus's arms right now? Omg, I'm on the floor and unable to suck in my stomache rolls. Did I just shit my pants?" As I began to look around to see if the "big man upstairs" decided to send me to heaven or hell, I saw a bunch of White Sox and Jays players standing around me. Yup. I had made it to heaven. (Not to mention my view from the floor left me jock strap level with some of the hardest bodies in baseball. Trust me, it's always better on the floor. It doesn't matter how you get there but it always ends up being sticky. Strange. (I originally had something way dirtier typed and then the fear my father reading this and having a heart attack became too real) 

Over the next 2 or 3 minutes the commotion around me began to grow as me and my somewhat lifeless body lay with my new bestie John on the floor. By this time the player that hit the ball, Ozzie Guillen from the White Sox, was screaming in his thick latin accent at the guys beside me WHO HAD BASEBALL GLOVES ON and could have caught the ball while it was hurling towards my head.

Ozzie: (read in latin accent) "Oh my Gad, I can't belieb chu didn't catch da ball main. Now look, che lyin on da floor"

As distracted as I was by the little latin firecracker yelling at those useless fucks with their baseball  gloves on, I was even more distracted by my mother's ugly cry face that was happening across from me. We all have an ugly cry face but they make me very uncomfortable to look at and I can't look away. Ugly cry faces use the kind of facial expressions that no human should ever expose to another human no matter how tragic the circumstance. I've become a fan of putting both hands over my face and holding them there until I'm done or start sweating so much I want to die. Once you feel the chin quiver, take notice and get those hands ready. There is also something about seeing people's nostrils flare so rapidly that makes me feel weird. Ew. In my opinion, everyone should follow my lead and cup the ol' noggin before you make everyone squeamish.

Now this story is quite long as the second part of it involves half my body falling off the stretcher, the paramedics getting in a fight with a cab driver, getting a rub down from a douchey doctor, freaking a German resident out, and ending up as the headliner on the 6 o'clock news. So I'm gonna spare you all right now and save part deux for next Monday's post. ( And I have some major cramps and I'm losing focus)

I'm out.
Nanners