Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!

Construction has begun on the empty lots behind my work.  It was cool watching all the machines strategically move the earth around.  I found myself, for a moment, caught up in the excitement of it all, wishing that I'd made different choices in life.  Choices that would've placed me behind the controls of these behemoth machines, instead of pondering from afar.

Watching the boom swing back and forth, I thought back to when I was a small child.  I grew up on a farm, not far from the city.  In the winter time, it was up to my father to clear out the snow from the yard to allow the easy entrance and exit of our vehicles.  My dad did not have a snow blower, relying on an aluminum scoop shovel, instead.  Either it seemed like we had lots and lots of snow, because I was a small child, or this particular year in my memory, we were relentlessly bombarded with snow.  So my dad could be heard clearing away the snow with his shovel.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" would echo off the building encompassing the yard. "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"  And we had a sizable yard, too.  Not a small driveway, but a grand-sized yard and a long lane-way that connected it to the highway. A front-end bucket for his tractor would have been a worthwhile investment, but instead.... "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

So one day, my sister and I were in the city with my mom, who came across these children's snow shovels.  They were red or blue or both, with a picture of a snowman in a winter scene.  "Would you like a snow shovel?" my mother asked us kids.  As I recall, our faces lit up and both were thrilled at the prospect of obtaining our own shovels.  Then we could go help dad clear the snow from the yard.  Up to then, it looked like a lot of fun.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

No sooner did we arrive at home, than did my sister and I go running out to begin our crusade of helping our father clear the snow that continually blew into the yard.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" continued to echo off the buildings, as my sister and I rounded the corner of the house, shovels in hand.  My dad was happy to see his smiling children, with shovels in hand and promises of help.  He pointed out a spot where we could begin our assistance.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!" we began, moving small increments of snow.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!"  Our efforts were small in comparison to the gargantuan amounts of snow our dad was able to move, and our shovels barely made a sound as they cut into the snow, unlike the thunderous clunks our dad's shovel made.

Soon, I realized that my dad didn't do this task on a nearly daily basis, because it was fun, but did it out of necessity.  This wasn't a game for him, but work.  As quick as I thought it was a wonderful idea to get the shovel to help my dad, I was wanting to desert my dad.  My sister, if I recall, being much younger than myself, had no qualms about dropping her shovel and returning to the warmth of the house.  I tried to hold on longer, but soon claimed to be cold and was encouraged by my dad to return to the house to warm up.

It's funny the shit you remember from the most insignificant and innocent of moments throughout your day...

So as I stood there, in the back of the shop, watching the earth moving equipment push the darkened soil about, I wished I could be the guy behind the controls of the machine, but almost as quickly, realized that it's probably a lot more actual work than it is fun to maneuver the equipment.  As I've learned in the last few days..;  Work isn't supposed to be fun...  Go figure!

Below The Belt

I used to hear about this athlete or that athlete being removed from the roster due to a groin injury. I never really understood what all that injury involved, but regularly thought that the athlete was being a primadonna. That the injury really wasn't that bad. That with a little bit of TLC, the slugger could lace up his skates or cleats and jump right back into the swing of things. I thought that all they had to do was "man up" and walk off their injury. Holy crap, was I in for a rude awakening.

It would seem that the "Powers That Be", the gods of professional athleticism, have heard enough of my blasphemy and graced me with the very same injury that I've mocked others with for so long. Anyone who knows me, can testify that throughout my shitty, yet distinguished life, I've have suffered through a great many injuries. I've had a few surgeries, one that left me quite disfigured. And other injuries that probably should have hurt more than they did. I can assure all readers, that despite my grocery list of "who's who" injuries, I've not had to deal with the level of discomfort I am feeling with regards to this personal injury, which I acquired yesterday at work.

The day had begun like any other day. My co-hort, Mr. G_____ was not in, as he had other engagements to tangle with. I'd come into the main office, clicked on my computer, then went to the warehouse to turn on the lights and unlock the back door. As I approached the front office, I was about 15 feet from the door that divides the two rooms of the building when I heard the telephone ring. If you don't answer it right away, it goes to voice mail, which can be a pain in the ass sometimes, so I picked up my pace to beat the ringer. That's when my foot caught the corner of a rug that, to this day I can't figure out it's purpose by that door. Instead of a little hop and a skip, like usual, I instead came crashing down with a tremendous THUD! I must've twisted and contorted my body in such a way to prevent extensive injury, because as I sat there, against the coolness of the steel door, I didn't feel any pain. However, in the hours that followed, something began to augment.

Gone was my usual swagger about the office (and in life), and in it's place an increasing limp matched with agonizing discomfort. I went to my doctor earlier this morning, who ran a couple of tests and confirmed to me that I have a "pulled groin". I was overwhelmed with understanding and compassion. I actually felt bad for mocking all those athletes I'd heard of with similar injuries. I understood now, why they'd be removed from their respective active rosters. This was an injury that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. That is, except one piece of shit, who shall remain nameless, but looks like a "wisent". That idiot deserves to feel this kind of pain... For being a dickhead!

So to all the athletes who may come across this blog, please allow me this opportunity to apologize for mocking your groin injuries, past and present. I never realized the extensiveness of this discomfort and you can best be sure that I will never mock sports-related injuries again.

As for all the soccer players of the world... SCREW YOU!!! Soccer's not a sport!!! It's gay, but not a sport!!! I say, "Get up and walk it off, sissy!!!" The only groin pulls you guys are getting, are the one's you give each other in the locker room showers. Circle jerks, anyone?