I was 13 years old, and at that stage when a boy's body consists entirely and solely of elbows and knees.
Thus it was deemed that I would be an excellent fly half for the rugby team.

Saturday came, and with it the big match against the rival school, to which the parents of each and every boy playing, and all their sisters, who for the past few months had been starting to enter my thoughts in various stages of undress, and all their sisters' friends, and their parents friends.

The opposing team kicked off, and what a kick it was! HIIIIiiiiigh into the air it went, on a very straight, and very direct parabollic curve in my direction.

End over end over end over end it spun, in the glorious clear autumnal sky.

This was it! Calculating the trajectory, I didn't even need to move! I simply needed to stretch out my arms, and capture the ball, and with it, every girl watching's heart, guaranteeing the ruination of my cursed virginity, schoolwide acclaim, and no doubt financial sponsorship offers of some sort.

The ball reached it's zenith, paused, and curved gracefully towards my outstretched arms.

It's amazing how much momentum those things can get from such a height.

It zoomed into my capture, and knocked me three yards onto my back, knocking me clean unconscious, for me to awaken moments later to a ground full of adults and children alike laughing uproariously at the skinny kid put on his back by an over-posh version of a pig's bladder.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 14:16, Reply)