Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: She Kicked My Ass on the Playground

From our homie, Eric E. I love this guy!

She tossed me the football, issuing a challenge: “Let’s see if you can get past me, Buttercup.” She hunched her shoulders and rushed me like a linebacker.

I hesitated, tucked the ball, and faked a move to the right. She hit me full-on, her momentum carrying us both to the ground. With me pinned down, she used her forearm to mash my face into the grass. I felt her grab the ball, jump up, and sprint past me. I rolled over and looked on helplessly as she celebrated in an imaginary end zone.

Did I just get my ass kicked by someone who smells like coconut oil?

I felt dejected, so I played hurt. She marched over and prodded me with the toe of her tiny sneaker. “Quit your moaning, Buttercup,” she taunted.

“What happened to stroking a man’s ego?” I asked from the ground.

“Show me a man, and I’ll be happy to."

Ouch. What was I dealing with here? Obviously, she wasn’t suffering from Avian Bone Syndrome, like Phoebe on 30 Rock. Nor was she a knuckleheaded bruiser who wanted to light farts on my head. She was something in-between: She was a jock.

I accepted that she outmatched me athletically. She had played varsity lacrosse in school, whereas I had been dismissed from Little League Baseball due to my lackluster performance. And, I wondered how this might affect our relationship: Would she ever be disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for extreme sports? Would she be let down if I skipped the Mojave Desert Triathlon to practice my Gaelic for an upcoming tour of the Whiskey Trail? Could I be happy as the WALL-E to her EVE?

I took the ball and trotted up the field. “OK, Pinky Tuscadero,” I shouted. “Prepare to receive.” As I watched her stretching her legs, I visualized where I’d put my hands for the tackle. The game was now a full contact event.

Little known fact: my first kiss was with my neighbor. We both were little kids, we couldn't have been older than six. I informed him that I wanted to kiss him and he flatly refused. So, I tackled him down to the ground, jumped on top of his chest and forcibly kissed him. He totally flipped out and furiously rubbed his lips on his sleeve, tears streaking down his chubby cheeks. Then, he threw dirt at me and ran home. The moral of the story: Boys are fun to fuck with. They just are.