I went to a picnic a few weeks ago cos it was a long weekend or something. It was all good but then we decided to play sports so things swiftly went downhill. I’m not good at sport. Two people were picked to be team captains for a game of touch football then everyone lined up to be picked into teams. So these two captains began choosing people, and before long it was down to two people left to be picked: Myself, or my friend Max, who was still recovering from a recent hip replacement. They chose max. I decided I was good without the newly found high school nostalgia so walked off into the distance but my friends then insisted I come back and play. So we’re playing and things are off to a pretty good start, I’m on the wing and making some good ground. Then I have my moment. My friend passes me the ball and I quickly realize I’m within reach of the goal line (I’m positive that’s not what you call it) of the opposing team. I start sprinting towards it, and decide this could be the turning point in my newly found recreational sporting career. I suddenly feel my legs giving in, and remembered I’m actually pretty drunk. I don’t know how I forgot about that. I toppled over and completely stacked it onto the ground and grazed my kneed across the grass. It was the only time I tried to run the whole fucking game. I more or less validated everyone’s reasoning for not wanting to pick me for their team in about 5 seconds. My legs were so sore for days but I wrote it off as being sore from the gym. It just sounded better. I hate sports.
– Lonely Kids Club
Picture by Angie: