Thursday, July 17, 2008

She's a Trip! - Part One

I am a clutz. I have always been a clutz, and I will always be a clutz. I am completely comfortable with this fate, and accepted it long ago when I woke up in the hospital after attempting to kick a soccer ball. You would think that this prospective destiny would make me a little more cautious as to where I step, or what direction I take, but rather, I suppose that subconsiously I believe that because I have survived many of these intimate meetings with the cement, one more friendly chat couldn't hurt. Thus, an incessantly clumsy Raphaela Torman.
To shed light on my various experiences "biting the dust" I have compiled the highlights into a series. And as this is part one, I will begin with the earliest memory of my clutziness:

You'll Get a Kick Out of This

Let's begin with my kickball experience previously alluded to. Now, as background, I must say that this was an accident in the making. My after-school (most days I was a latchkey kid) program had quite an interesting array of child supervisors. Miss Kelly was our supervisor that day, and decided that the 15 children in our after school class needed to get some fresh air and exercise. To our dissarray, Wishbone was removed from the VCR, and a "refreshing" game of kickball was arranged. Unfortunately, that day, the kickball field was taken by another afterschool class. Shouting our hallelujahs and hoorays the fifteen of us started towards the school building, but Miss Kelly had a more brilliant plan. Because exercise was a requirement she had to fill as a supervisor and weather was not an excuse, she decided it would be best if we played the game on the basketball court.
Now, I wasn't the most brilliant eight year old at the time, but even then, knowing my tendency to get into accidents, I knew that this venture was one that would have many a consequence in the near future, but, of course, the game commenced. Of course, I would love to tell you that it was in the process of blocking the ball from my opponent, or diving in to make the last base that I acquired my minor concussion, but rather, it was much more embarassing and and much less heroic. There I was, it was my turn to kick, the pressure is on, I run and, with as much force as I can muster, bring my foot out to make, what I could only be hoping was a shot to make David Beckham jealous. To my horror my foot, with all the pressure I had applied to the kick, scuffs the top of the ball and my entire body flips. BAM! Next thing I know I am in the hospital having stitches applied to my head, hands, arms and knees. I still have the scar, and more vivid than ever, the memory.

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