I am Proud of My Hubby

For many reasons. Yesterday, I was most proud that he schooled a bunch of punks in a dodge ball game.

Chad's work has an industrial league dodge ball team. My husband, being the ultra competitive sports nut that he is, of course plays on this team. Now, I have watched my husband participate in many sporting events, and I love watching him. There is something about seeing him hit a baseball, or shoot a basket, or swing a golf club, that makes me think: Wow. There is hope for our children. (There is no disputing the fact that I have zero athletic ability. Zilch. None. Unless they get a few of his genes, our kids are doomed to be the last ones chosen for any kickball team, at any elementary school, in this country.) Having said that, I am not going to lie. When he told me he was going to be playing dodge ball, I really wasn't that excited to go watch. I mean, really. Dodge ball? I figured I would spend the time watching the clock tick slowly by, hoping the game didn't go too long and force me to miss part of this week's episode of The Office. Little did I know, being bored was not on the agenda.

If any of you have seen the Ben Stiller Flick, this image may seem familiar:

You probably thought, like I did, that this was an exaggerated parody. No, my friends. No, you were mistaken. This is a very accurate representation of dodge ball teams that actually do exist. I witnessed one for myself last night, when the little bank took on their arch nemesis: The Good Fellas.

No, this photo has not been photo shopped. This is the real deal. The Good Fellas have been undefeated for three seasons. They have routine practices. They have uniforms. The majority of them have purchased sneakers that match the dark, and intimidating colors of their uniforms. They wear sweat bands and arm bands. They mean business. To them, dodge ball isn't a game--it is a way of life.

That is why, I had to stifle just a few giggles while watching. I had to try not to laugh while bandanna boy did a special spin move. I had to bite my cheek muscles to keep from grinning when little man with the head band bent low to the ground, swerving with insane motions to avoid being hit. Their performance reminded me a lot of this:

Pretty soon, I wasn't stifling giggles, I was trying to keep myself from running on the court, approaching one member of the team, and letting him know that I was about to "pop his jaws" as Nana would say.

And their name choice? A bit confusing. They weren't "good" fellas at all, but probably need to think about changing their name to "poor sport, potty-mouthed, going nowhere, potheads."

My favorite moment of the evening, however, was when one "good" fella decided to show the referee the bird. This, of course, brought shocked outcries from my mother-in-law and myself, at which point one of the good fella's mothers explained that "They needed to be able to voice their opinions, and it was the referee's fault." Right. Wow. Good parenting skills lately. And I was wondering where these kids got their social skills from.

The only thing that kept me from physically harming these individuals (other than the fact that I was scared about them retaliating under the influence of alcohol and other hallucinogenic drugs) was realizing that these people don't have real jobs. To them, this is life. The fact that my husband's team is beating them at what we consider to be an amusing past time, is to them detrimental.

In the end I was still glad we kicked their butts! My husband's underdog team beat the evil giants fair and square. Way to go, guys!