Hey everybody. Remember us? Law & Order? Been on for 20 years? Last episode is tonight? Ring a bell? We’re on an island too, ya know. Yes, we’ve been making new episodes. 450 of them. Ya know what? Nevermind. Keifer, let’s go where we’re appreciated. Goodbye.
I’ve realized something after taking my kickboxing class. If I was ever mugged by someone on the streets, I would not only lose a fight, but look absolutely ridiculous. I punch like a fucking girl. Especially while doing squats. I looked at myself in the mirror for a greater part of an hour and realized that I would be an embarrassment to anyone actually trying to take my wallet. And if I was ever involved in a fight that lasted 47 minutes, I would most definitely give up. Unless Get Down Tonight by K.C. and the Sunshine Band is playing. If that’s the case, I think I could kick anybody’s ass. As long as I’ve stretched for 15 minutes prior to the mugging.
Every once in a while, I’m reminded that I’m a 35-year old man who never got into a steady workout regimen. Today was such a day. There was a moment where I needed to take out the fullback in my full-contact flag football game. If you watch football enough, you understand this concept. It is often the responsibility of some linebacker or strong safety to take out the blocker so that someone else may have a direct line to the ball-carrier. If I decide to pull a Corbin-Bernsen-Major-League-Olay move and don’t get the ball-carrier or the blocker, that blocker will be free to go on to the next guy with my color jersey who actually has testicles.
So I was the first one to the scene on this particular running play and had to take out the fullback. Now, my technique isn’t exactly the impressive muscle-rippling collision you would see from a Brian Dawkins or Troy Palamolu. My technique often sends me flying through the air backwards trying to figure out which body part to strategically land on to minimize the pain I will be in for the rest of the week. It is not the most intimidating or technically sound technique, but effective nonetheless, as the blocker is now preoccupied with making sure his roommate will be able to upload that play to youtube before the game even ends. This is how I earned the nickname “Speed Bump” back in high school. I would try to hang on to the running back for dear life until somebody with a 50-something number on their jersey caught up to us to finish the job. Anyway, I’ve now taken out the blocker, when in strolls Mr. Right Place Right Time to get the guy’s flag for a 2-yard gain. And all I can hear as I’m lying on the ground checking my internal organs for unnatural shifting is “Nice flag, Jamie.” Yes Jamie, great job. Now how many fingers is the ref holding up?
I take the Marc train back home every once in a while when I have shit to do in DC and don’t feel like figuring out where I’m allowed to park and how the hell to pay for it. I’ve now been told on 3 separate occasions while putting my feet up on the seats that by order of policy, A) I had to take my shoes off, B) I had to leave my shoes on, and C) I wasn’t allowed to put my feet on the seats at all. I’m starting to think they don’t really have a policy at all. Or if they do, it states “Tell the patrons to do whatever the fuck you want” or something to that effect. This is why people own cars and drive to work.
So I need to revisit this Tony Reali situation and I’m bringing you all with me. Since my original website (blog) post yesterday about our random encounter (and accompanying twitter tweets), I’ve somehow earned the respect of His Hornness, or at least his interest in 140-character increments. It’s amazing how far you can get when you compliment a guy’s sweater and publicly admit to stalking him. It earned me a shout out to over 72,000 twitter folk. Which is approximately equivalent to 5 ½ actual people. Which is still more people than visit my website (blog). So that is my newest brush with fame and by far my best usage of my twitter account.
Also, Tony Reali seems like a real stand up guy and I’m very excited our relationship has gone to the next level. This will test my ability to act appropriately around a celebrity. Even given the guise of the internet and an almost infinite amount of time to contemplate each response, I still feel this feeling that I used to get around Katie McAllister back in high school (Why not? That cat’s probably been out of the bag long enough anyway). Maybe I should just get drunk before I log onto twitter now. That seems reasonable.
Anyway, my childhood dream of getting on ESPN has a much better chance of coming true in the form of a tweet than in the Eagles defensive backfield now, so this is what I’m relegated to. Odds are long. Wish me luck.