Sinking Like a Stone

"And cool water
Washes me all over
Washes me away
And still I'm drowning" Joe Jackson

"(I'm) a brick and I'm drowning slowly." Ben Folds Five

"I’m sweating,
And breathing
And staring and thinking
And sinking
Deeper.
It’s almost like I’m swimming." Tool

Swimmers. Can you hear the contempt in my voice? Of course not. I'd worry if you did. For as long as I remember I've avoided swimming. But now, kicking and screaming, I have had to become one. I'm being literal of course. Most of my swimming consists of kicking and screaming when I'm not actually inhaling chlorine filled water.

I've avoided the big plunge forever, but my 39 year old knees decided that the day would be more fun with IT band swelling and general knee pain. I swear that my knees are giggling every time I squat down to play with my kid as the knees snap, crackle, pop and I groan like a 1500 year old Sequoia in the wind, only louder.

"Daddy, your knees sound like breakfast!"
"But son, they feel like ___." I'm never allowed to finish that sentence, as the glance from my wife tells me it's time to change the subject. Ah, if only I could stand back up.

I know swimming is good for you, but I've never really identified with these broad shouldered, muscle encrusted, rubber headed, eye goggled, body shaving, kick flippin', "we're the best exercise" gloating, chlorine breathing, please shower before entering the pool area bas**ds.

Ah, that helped. I feel better already.

Being a runner, biker, rollerblader, and doing any other sport that allows oxygen freely into your lungs, I've always considered swimming only one step away from the treadmill. You start at a wall, go to the next, and come back 'home'. Then you do it all over again. It's like commuting, only less fun and with dirty water left over from the previous hours pre-school swimming program. You know what I'm getting at and I'm sorry.

So there's no scenery, no favorite loops, no dodging cars, and no talking to a friend. Just the goggle distorted site of a black line, lost Band-Aids, water suspended phlegm, the sound of gasping, splashing, and the funky green colored bottom where the lifeguard will probably find me dead since he is too busy talking to the girl sunning herself in a bikini the size of the Sacajawea dollar.

But I'm not bitter. I just can't breath. Plus, I smack my head on the concrete every time I do the backstroke. Dear Michael Phelps, please save me or at least show me where I can find some air.

But I'm attacking the pool like we attacked Iraq, with my WMD being the green water. I liberate a little water from the pool every time I leave. A little in the lungs, a little in the belly, and a lot in the ears. However, unlike Iraq things might be getting a little better.

My last swimming experience was as follows:

So back and forth I go. I'm moving like a large, flailing rock, only less boyant. I've noticed that they've positioned extra female lifeguards for some reason. Maybe they just think I'm cute? It's tough to say with goggles that see the world as clearly as Donald Rumsfeld. Nope, that's a look of worry on their faces. I just took my pulse, and it was 358.. That has to be good. Did my right arm just fall off? Nope, it's just numb. I've just had the head of the local triathlon club offer her coaching expertise as I gasped for breath gripping the side of the pool like a vice. Her introduction was, "I can help you with your form." That can't be a good sign. At the end, I seem to have breathed more air and less water this time around. As I stagger out of the pool, I notice something.

I feel like I've exercised.

As Tool said, "It's almost like I'm swimming." I may have to do this again sometime. Now if I could only get this water out of my ear.

Taking the Dive

Make no mistake: I'm a soccer fan. This is especially true during World Cup time. Quite honestly, half the fun of being a soccer fan is seeing the glazed over expression your male friends get as you discuss the beauty of a particular set play or bemoan the ref in the USA vs. italy match. However, you press on because these are the same looks your received your whole life as you discussed AD&D in high school (if you don't know, don't ask), Monty Python, Terry Gilliam films, the Bush administration, home brewing, and the Tour de France (before this year's controversy).

Hey, I say press on. If you have to listen to discussions about golf or this years NBA draft, they should have to reciprocate the favor. Preferably while being forced to drink your home brew while watching BRAZIL or The FISHER KING.

But things are getting a little out of hand in the futbol world. There are too many penalties and way, way, too much diving. I mean, I haven't seen this much diving since before Greg Louganis retired. I haven't seen this much flopping since my cross country team did the amazingly illegal Great Naked Winter Night Run of 1988. (Although there would have been more flopping if the weather had been a wee bit warmer.)

To make matters worse, the flopping seems to come from countries that drive many in the US crazy for their silly parlimentary procedure, their attractive and slim women, and their distain for fried food; such as Italy, Spain, France, and Portugal. Ironically, three of these teams made the final four, which shows how @#$#ed up this flopping is becoming.

So to fix this, I've got an idea. First, if a team has more than 10 penalties in a half, someone has to sit out for 2 minutes, like in hockey. Next, if you're dragged off on a stretcher, you're also out for 5 minutes, unless the coach wants to sub for you. Third, if you dive, you're also out for 5 minutes. No more red or yellow cards. Have the guts to make it hurt the offending team on the field. Plus, it would help the "beautiful game" get back to beauty instead of free kicks every thirty seconds. Now add in instant replay on penalty kick calls and you've got an exciting 90 minutes of sport. However, this makes way too much sense, so let's add a little drama to spice it up a little.

If you flop or are taken off the field in a stretcher, you're place in a penalty cage with an enforcer that is picked by the other team. Let's say a retired Mike Tyson, a desperate for cash OJ Simpson, or that crazy ex-soccer player that was in Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels. If you can get past him before your five minutes, you can rejoin the pitch. Think of the ratings as Figo, C. Ronaldo, or Henry are getting pummeled for real behind the goal instead of prancing about the field seconds after appearing to need a trip the ER. Think of the goals scored as they serve their penalties. Think of the TV ratings in the USA.

Think of the royalty checks I'll receive. Now, hopefully these will be the only flops we'll see next time at the World Cup.