Flag Football for Jesus

I answered the phone last Sunday—it was our our neighbor—she invited us to come play flag football with a bunch of her friends. I muttered something like “thanks, gosh that sounds like fun, don’t expect to see us,” as I am in no physical shape to be playing sports such as football. I tell the wife about the invite and she gets all excited, adding that we never say “yes” when the neighbor invites us to do things, so we should take part in some flag football. Well, I did think it would help me be sporty, so I acquiesce and put on my Oakland football jersey. If I'm gonna take part in such a debacle, I might as well look good.

Once at the park, I quickly surmised that I was going to be the oldest person on the field. In fact, there was one player who was literally 20 years younger than me. Pride being what pride is, I was not deterred by such sights. I put on my flags and got ready to play.

Thankfully, there were an uneven number of players. I practically knocked myself unconscious in an effort to volunteer to be referee. This worked out delightfully... until another player showed up and I was forced to take part in the actual game. I didn’t strain myself—I made sure not to run any long patterns and never offered to blitz a quarterback.

Halfway into the game, this guy in a beat-up pick up truck pulls up to the park. We don’t think much about him, as we are in a public place, but there he is, looking at us. I take another look. I don't like it. Something is wrong with this picture. My hackles go up. I know that he is going to say something. I don't like this at all. No one else is paying attention but this guy is on my radar. Bad, bad, bad.

Sure enough, while standing by his truck, he calls out, “can I join in?” We stop play and look at him. He’s kidding, right?

It takes but a second to figure out no, he’s not kidding. He crosses the street and slowly approaches the huddled-up teams, all puffed up and ready to play.....

...the guy stops when he realizes we are a bunch of WOMEN playing flag football. It is easy to see this confuses him and gives him pause. He laughs and says, “oh, I was going to ask to play--I thought this was a bunch of guys.”

I'm not sure if we should be offended by this or not. We continue our game, doing our best to ignore him.

He walks closer, which I find weird. He stands there for a few minutes and then asks if he can ref the game. Some moron in the group says yes, so he joins our pile of people. I stop playing. I want to etch into my mind what this guy looks like in case he turns out to be a psycho mass murderer. I contemplate strolling toward his truck to get his license plate number but decide better...this is no time to wander away from the safety of the teams. Someone asks if he lives around here; he says no but motions up the road and says he goes to church right up there.

Great. Football for Jesus. I knew it! I have a really bad feeling about this. I'm sure the real Jesus likes football but we don't need a local Jesus playing referee for our Sunday outing.

Local Jesus is giving me the creeps.

Local Jesus talked on and on about church and his participation in the holiness of said church...suddenly a lightbulb goes on and he stops talking, mid-sentence.

DING! Ol’ Local Jesus realizes this is not a bunch of housewives playing flag football while the hubbies are at home enjoying the NFL on TV. 

No, this is a plethora of sinful, heathen-esque lesbians playing flag football.

(Maybe it’s the giant “L” we all have on our foreheads.)

Local Jesus looks a bit frazzled. He backs away from us, like we are lepers, and then…..literally….I’m not making this up…..he starts to bless us! I mean a biblical, holy blessing of the most Godly, Old Testament kind. Prayer oozes from his being.

Local Jesus is going to save us from our most sinful ways.

Everyone is silent. Oh sure, NOW they have nothing to say. No one moves. Just our flags flap silently in the breeze.

Should we be thankful, horrified or amused? He contiues to walk backwards, never taking his eyes off our sinful selves. Praying and walking. Thankfully, the more he walks, the less we can hear his prayers. We're still not playing football. We are frozen.

I’m just glad he drives away. I feel a profound sense of relief as his truck fades into the distance. The real Jesus deems it is time for the game to resume. It is great fun.

The next morning, when I am unable to get out of bed, I curse Local Jesus. I am sure he has done something most decidely unchristian to my soul. My 44 year old muscles have decided that walking is not in their best interest and it’s all I can do to limp to the bathroom. I realize my left ankle has a problem. Not a muscle soreness problem—a sports injury problem. What was I thinking when I said yes to playing that game? I cannot put all my weight on my left foot. This is not good.

I limp to work. I'm not letting any local Jesus get the best of me.

Co-workers are VERY entertained by my noticeable limp and make all sorts of jokes about my age as related to flag football. I limp through the day, downing handfuls of ibuprofen. They laugh even more when I blame Local Jesus.

Four days later I'm still limping. I'd go to the doctor but he'd just say I pulled a muscle or a ligament or sprained my ankle or something and that I should take ibuprofen and stay off of it. I figure if it still hurts in another week or two, I'll give in and go. Until then, I vow to stick to the football pool and to the NFL on TV instead of playing actual football of any kind.

I envision spitting on Local Jesus but then realize it'd be better to pray for him.