You Should See The Other Guy's Foot

Yesterday, I got kicked in the face by a 6'6" moron who probably still thinks he was playing soccer at the time. Apparently, he had decided it was a good idea to try to kick a ball that was thrown in onto the top of my head, which, let me emphasize, is six feet off the ground. Unfortunately, his foot didn't quite make it to the ball when my face got in its way.

High kick, referee?

The first words out of his mouth were, "Oh...fuck." They were quick words, too, given that I hadn't quite gathered what had happened yet. The people who saw my face seemed to think my injury was pretty disturbing. One of them even told me--in between expletives--that my skin was "detached," which conjures up images of dangling, at least in my mind. Meanwhile, I felt more anger and shock than pain, because (a) the blow I received was rather numbing, and (b) why the fuck did that idiot kick me in the face? The throw-in was clearly directed at me and I hardly had to move to head it. Where did he come from? What was his foot doing that high in the air?

But I think mainly I just felt offended to be on the same field as this classless, talentless neanderthal. You should have seen it my stony, condemning gaze or in the quietly offended manner with which I walked off the field. I think I was actually more stunned by his idiocy than his cleats.

Several hours of waiting room, waiting in rooms, and four stitches later, I emerged from the ER, living testament to the truth that very tall people have no business playing soccer. Now, the marginally visible underside of my chin is permanently scarred just in time for senior formal and graduation. And I can no longer number myself among the beautiful people.

You can imagine my distress when I learned that this same jackass, who had made no effort to assist in the repair of or even merely assess the damage he had done to my countenance, lacked the dignity to remove himself from the game for the egregious red-card foul he had committed and furthermore went on later to tackle our keeper with his cleats up. Down a player, my team went on to tie, victim to two last minute goals by a member of our own ranks who had defected to the other team at the beginning of the game.


The moral?
Don't play soccer with fuckbots.