The Game ...35-9

Parent -Child Basketball Game. Tuesday Night. 7 - 8:30

That wasn't the score. Its the age difference. Me, 35. My opponent, 9.

When I read that the parents were invited to participate in a basketball game against their daughters, sheer freight came over me....my back, my lungs - After all, I did JUST have baby. Ok, Jen. Get it together. Its a team full of kids.

First, I have to say, that competition and the need to win in ingrained in my brain. It really doesn't matter what it is I am competing at....I need to win. Take Bunco...a dice game, where luck is really all its about. Just because its about luck, doesn't mean I feel the need to win any less.

Recently, at a Bunco game, I suppose I was a little boisterous as I rolled the dice...a fellow player looked at me with confusion and annoyance in her eyes and said "what exactly are you here for". "Ummm...duh...I am hear to WIN!" What did she think I was here for? I had tasted victory once before and it tasted good...damn good. If I wanted to converse over cocktails I would meet out at a bar or something. This was a game...and games are meant to have a winner and a loser. And I intend on being a winner. (I am unemployed after all, and this could potentially be my only source of income)

OK, back to the basketball game. My neighbor had participated in this event with her child recently. She giggled when I told her, and advised that wear a pantyliner. "Huh?"

"You know" she said. "The fast running and sudden stopping."

I realized that the bladder, after giving birth, tends to not react well in these kinds of situations. Hmm...yet another thing to concern myself with.

I went to the Gap on the morning of the game and purchase a new pair of sweatpants. And no, the 22 pairs I have just didn't seem sufficient. I needed something stylish, yet practical. Ones that would not trip my up during a fast break, or a tough man on man D.
I found the perfect pair of black, rolled top, elastic bottom (just under the knee).

Its 5:30. An hour and a half til game time. I decided I needed a shower so that I could slick my short hair tightly back. Any wisps in front of my eyes could be disastrous.
I instructed Ava to get her uniform on and rest up....she was a bit nervous...well..because she knows me.

I laced up my brown and pink sneakers (which I have only worn during theme park excursions), popped 3 extra strength Advil, and strategically placed a medicated hot patch on my lower back. I doused myself with Bath and Body works body spray so as not to smell like Ben Gay. I didn't want to give these kids the false impression that I was not up to the task.

On the way to the game, I forced Liza to pick sides. She knew she had better pick mine. I told Ava Emma would be on her side.

Time to jump for the ball. The coach had picked me and Ava. There are several other moms on the team who were definitely over 5 ft 8. I knew this would be good for us. Most of the girls playing were around my height...some taller. And, they had been playing several times a week for the past several months. It was these factors that lead me to the conclusion that all I had on these girls was age. As such, I was in "take no mercy" mode.

After the first 10 minutes, my back was still holding up OK. I had made several fast breaks down court to score. I did get stuffed one time by the teams point guard. She is very good...and scrappy....I welcomed her tenacity....and found her to be a worthy opponent. She at one point yelled at me that I was stepping on her sneaker during a jump ball. I fouled Ave twice. Whatever, I had forgotten to take my neighbors advice, and needed to get this game over with.

As the referee called for subs, I dragged my hurting body to the side of the court where Liza wiped my brow and gave me a water bottle. I wasnt expecting this, but my uterus actually hurt...I didnt even know that was possible...but it did...it hurt. (Things you learn.)

Anyway, a mother who was not playing commented that I was good...and that I should play in an adult league. I proudly said thank you...and then I explained I didn't care if my opponent was 9, 6 or 3. I was there to win. (What was I thinking? Why would I say that? What must she think of me?) Oh well. The truth shall set you free.

I sat down and Dave went in for me. I had Emma duty during the quarter. Everyone was cooing at her...the other moms. I looked at her and noticed that something was protruding from the the top of her shirt. I thought my hot patch had come off and had somehow made it into her shirt. While everyone was looking, I reached over and pulled it out....to my horror, it was a bathing suit "cup". I was slightly embarrassed and was going to explain how that happened...until Ava bluntly yelled out: "Liza put it in there to see what Emma would look like with one boob".

SUBS! Ok, I was back in the game. Ava had really begun to get her footing. She was playing me man on man with a vengeance. I had no choice but to resort to arm holding and mouth covering. These kids were neck and neck with us, scoring wise, and we were trying our very best. At some point, my motherly instinct to see my child succeed kicked in. It was very weird for me...but I let up some. I let her get at least two shots off...you know, for her self esteem and all.

The game ended- I am not sure who won, however, I know it was within a few points.

When we got home, I had all I could to get myself to the couch. I popped two more Advil and placed the hot computer charger against my back. The adrenalin from exercising impeded my ability to fall asleep any time soon.

So today, I am lying on the couch, STILL in my basketball outfit. The backs of my legs feel as if someone is holding a flame to them whilst untangling each of my ligaments. The tops or my arms are sore as well...from all the shots I took, and my back is stiff. Couple this with the fact that I have this walking baby to chase around, no diet coke, and no coffee and I have just about hit rock bottom for the week. The only thing that is keeping me going is the fact that Bunco is tonight, and I am going to need to rest up and get ready to roll dice kick ass. Get Ready.