I bereave, I can fry

People who have played sports with me in the past, no matter what type, would probably be able to testify that I lack technique. What they would also be able to testify would be that I don't give a damn about it until someone screams foul.

"There's a fire in your eyes when I see you play. It's the trait that sportspeople have, it's what makes them want to win," my first boyfriend told me at the college sports carnival. "Don't lose that fire. It's a good thing to have."

That fire I believe is fueled by a very unhealthy level of frustration aimed at my father's disapproval for me picking up Tae Kwon Do as a youngster.

"You'll end up with bruises all over. Girls shouldn't get hurt like that, you know?" he said in his overbearingly compassionate tone. Most young adults can admit that anything told to you by your parents in that exact tone in the most formative stages of your life is most likely to be etched into your brain as the unquestionable truth for a very long time, even when it's complete obvious hogwash.

(Not to say that it's not too late to pick up Tae Kwon Do right now, but I need to figure out if I'd be able to stay committed to the sport with my current double life as a performer and corporate whore. The word 'committed'... Such a lame word that grown-ups incoporate into their grown-up excuses.)

So my testosterone-deprived childhood has instilled in me not only a 'fire', but also an opportunist attidute towards pain - cuts, bruises, weeping lesions... whenever there is a chance of pain, I will enjoy the gamble. Just to prove that when it does happen, a woman can seriously take it.

The other day, I was at my weekly futsal session with my regular gang. And it just so happened that I was the only girl playing that day. My dude mates generally play hard but a couple of them tend to get a little wary whenever I come within a 5-foot radius.

One of them is Izmir. A real tiger on the court, but cannot live with himself if he comes into any physical contact with a girl during the game. I played defense and got in his way, and he trampled on my toes by accident. Despite my assurances that I was perfectly fine, the rate and magnitude of his apologies, which he continued offering at every chance he got as the game ensued, made it seem like he ran over my foot with a steamroller. "Just play on, man!" I kept insisting.

"I'm sorry, I just don't believe that girls should get hurt," he explained.

*TZ'NG*

He swiftly yanked out the ring out of my testosterone grenade. It imploded in my throat. I swallowed it all down, smiled politely, and carried on playing.

Toward the end of the hour, the boys were all out to get each other, blissfully ignoring the stick woman who was serving as a mere distraction to the game; a grey strand in a raven mane, the hint of a boom mike in a student film, the skin of a corn kernel stuck in between two te-

*WHACK*

The ball sent shockwaves through my shoulder.

The court collectively gasped and fell silent. I looked at them, their faces contorted in horror.

Then one boy uttered those three special words.

"Are you okay?"

*TZ'NG*

I tried swallowing it, but it erupted the wrong way. Perhaps in a similar fashion that you try and open a bag of Twisties as neatly and discreetly as possible, but should the bag have a rebellious streak it could catch you by surprise and send all of its contents flying in all directions.

Verbal Twisties shot out of my mouth in all directions, followed by an interpretive dance of a gremlin who just lost its toenail in the key of Foul.

I AM FINE I AM A WOMAN AND I CAN TAKE WHATEVER YOU THROW AT ME JUST BECAUSE I HAVE TITS DOESN'T MEAN I AM MADE OF FREAKIN' FLOWERS FOR GOD'S SAKE WE GO THROUGH FREAKIN' CHILDBIRTH TO BRING YOU GUYS INTO THIS WORLD MY GOD WHY DON'T YOU

"Whoa... uh, Davina?"

GUYS GET WITH THE BLOODY PROGRAM-TZSTTAAGGHHT-GEEEAAARRCHEEYIII-DEERIKTAYPHOOYAA

"Chill woman..."

STOOPPEEEDDAASSWWIIPPEEECHEELAKAPOOKEEMARICKYMARTIN
"DAVINA!"

I jolted out of my fit, chest heaving, head throbbing, shoulder burning.

Quick strange glances were shared before the boys gingerly recommenced with the ball.

All of them came up to me after the match to check that I was fine. Fine from the outburst or fine from the blow - I wasn't too sure, but all the same and luckily for them, I was out of Twisties. All I could do was nod half-heartedly in assurance that I would not go crying home to my mommy about being bullied by a bunch of ruffians who don't know how to take precautions when playing with dainty little fairy princesses.

From now on I should seriously start remembering to take off my makeup before playing.