The Usual Vaseline-Coated Shit-show

I played pickleball this morning, then mowed the lawn, then helped my son Alex move a TV and some furniture to New Brunswick . . . forgetting that I should have been conserving my energy for the traditional Labor Day pool party greased-watermelon-rugby match; this year's match was more epic than usual-- and it's usually fairly epic . . . after jumping out to an early lead, my team eventually lost 3-2 but it took far longer than usual and by the end, most of us were gassed-- from treading water; from wrestling and dunking folks; from trying to keep our with our fully grown, athletic children, and mainly from diving into the murky depths of the deep end in pursuit of the neutrally buoyant melon-- -- with dozens of legs kicking above you, blocking your path to oxygen-- and while most of the match was the usual Vaseline-coated shit-show, I was proud of two particular moments:

1) Alex had the watermelon a yard from the end line, but when he rose up to toss it over the side of the pool and tie the score, I rose up with him-- and like (a very short and hairy) Dikembe Mutombo, I cleanly blocked his scoring attempt . . . it was fucking sweet-- and when Alex scored on the next possession, he said, "Thank God I scored, or I'd never hear the end of that block"

2) during a frothy chaotic melee, I ended up clutching the watermelon to my belly, but my back was turned to our opponent's end-zone and I was holding the melon below the surface of the water-- and no one knew that I was in possession of the melon-- so I channeled Daniel-Day Lewis, looked around frantically, and said, "Where is it? Where did it go?" and I simultaneously started kicking my legs and proceeding very slowly into enemy territory-- and I made it a couple of yards utilizing this deception, but then Alex jumped on me and pushed the melon loose, and he claims "you were making that face that you always make when you're doing something stupid like that."