Bottling up the competitive juices

The Boy played T-ball today, continuing the early stages of my grand plan to get him into the major leagues, thus providing me with a retirement income that would be much safer than Social Security.

At the end of the day's practice, the coaches gathered the players around and informed them that, next week, they'd be playing an actual game. Thus far, as they're all 4 and 5 year olds, they'd been practicing -- because it's a bit difficult to play a game when most of the players are more interested in kicking sand and picking their nose.

But next week's game would have a twist: They'll be playing the parents.

Kids versus parents.

"And," the coach said, "the kids WILL win. The adults are going to look rather silly."

That's what she thinks.

No way am I going to lose a game to a bunch of 5-year-olds. I'm entirely too competitive. They'll have to devise rules to prevent me from winning, or tie my feet together so I have to hop around the bases. But I'm going to do my best to win anyway, dammit.

The problem is that if I do win, I'd not only anger the coaches and make all the kids cry, but I'd probably be forced to sleep on the couch for the foreseeable future. Because my wife would be mad. Real mad. As in get-the-divorce-papers mad.

So my only choice, really, is to pull a hamstring. I could even pull a hamstring in some sporting event, enabling me to go down with honor. But it would be my luck that I'd pull my groin.