standing. sweating. breathing. staring at the mirror. i wipe my forehead with a towel. a second later, beads of sweat start to form again, inundating me with a slippery wet surface area that glistens in the light. the quiet bubbles slowly ooze through the pores of my epidermis, each little droplet of water squeezing its way into the daylight, only to coalesce and fall prey to the weight of gravity. my chest still heaves up and down with every intake and outtake of air, bringing much needed oxygen to my tired muscles. completely drenched, i once again wipe everything away, only for it to once again defeat me and overwhelm my body with another coating of perspiration. i relish this strange sickly cycle, one who’s action proves that the body has been worked and overworked, that the internal temperature has risen so high through the process of mechanical repetition of body parts that it must spit out and continue churning out as much water to cool the core. this is what i live for. this feeling of exhaustion where the body has reached its limit, and then it gets pushed beyond it even further, reaching a state where so few have gone before. my victory. my accomplishment. my deliverance.

11.03pm

the light turns green, and i slowly crawl out from my stationary position. i follow the huge large truck in front of me, wincing as the huge behemoth creaks and groans as it uses all its available power trying to accelerate onto the freeway. it’ll get there, eventually, i thinkk. hope. i don’t have the time or patience for this. my left hand quickly jumps into action, advancing into the moment before the brain can even gather its collected logical thought process. already directing the car into the next lane, before it even lines up parallel to us, the left hand pulls downward on the steering wheel and, simultaneously in one swift graceful motion, hits the left turn blinker on as well. by now, the brain has caught up and sends signals down to the foot to catch up with the program. the car lurches forward, struggling to not be left behind in the flurry of movements. the tachometer is evidence of the enormous power that must be put into work to complete the task, as the car revs up to 6000rpm, just a tad under the redline mark of 6500rpm. now it’s the eyes turn to lead, and seeing an open space in the next lane over, it proceeds to send the same signals to the brain, telling the muscles to repeat the same maddening procedure to reach the end goal. before i can consciously catch up with all the chaos unfolding in front of my eyes, with nearly no recognition from my present self, my vehicle races off into the distance at a mere 80mph, two lanes over from where i entered the freeway. time elapsed: only a few measly seconds, time enough to allow me to be where i am now, but yet, conversely, time enough to leave me shattered into pieces, strewn about the cement in a disemboweled configuration of gore. my adrenaline rush. my release. my satisfaction.

11.18pm

a game of seconds and inches. a precision game. yes, strength and muscle also do factor in, but boil it down the basics, you’re left with those two metrics and nothing else. so in our little pick up game, i bring myself to the line, awaiting the opposing qb to rattle off his nonsense and get his team ready to go. as they’re done, they too come up to the trenches, and we embrace the oh so fabled calm-before-the-storm. with the slightest movement of the brown-colored pigskin, and as cliché as it may be, all hell really does break loose. the opposing wideouts rush off to run their respective routes, and our cornerbacks and safeties rush to make sure every one and every inch of the field is covered. but as for myself, i ignore the peripheral action that unfolds around and behind me, watching only the qb drop back with his 5-step motion, chasing his every eye movement, as miniscule as it may be. i shout out the rush count: one-mississippi, two-mississippi, three-mississippi, four-mississippi, five-mississippi. as soon as that last syllable flies off my tongue, so too do i race out of the trench zone and make a bee-line for the qb. the opposing team has one person covering the rush (that’d be me), and this guy, make no mistake is one gigantic wall of a person. but as the saying goes, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. as such, with my eyes still fixed on the qb, i take two quick steps to the right, and like a game of chess, so too does the giant blunder over to try and disengage my attack. the qb, trying to stay one step ahead of me, also moves in reaction to what he anticipates my attack will be; he shifts a little over to the left. but then my quicker and lighter footsteps give me the advantage in slipping by the boulder, easing over to his left, just fingers beyond his reach. as a result of the aforementioned chess match that’s been in play, there exists nothing but open space between me and their qb. but because his eyes were still busy scanning down field for a second too long, gifting me with that extra infinitesimal ounce of time, i am that much closer to sacking him. and by the time he recognizes his one defense against me has fallen, i’ve raced over and already downed him, thereby ending the play. seconds. inches. precision. you win those three theatres of war, and the rest is over. checkmate.

09.18.09, 10.45-11.44pm
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three anecdotes. one story.