going for broke

So, I'm gasping for air, sweat making my shirt cling to my body and running down the sides of my face. It's chilly, so my nose is running. I've taken a couple hard falls; I know I'll be sore tomorrow. I wish I had cleats  on; I've lost my footing several times today, once falling flat on my face, almost hard enough to knock the wind out of me. One of my hands stings; I've definitely bruised the meaty part of my palm this week; last week I broke a blood vessel on one of my fingers. Three weeks ago I earned a hand-sized bruise on my shin.

What on earth am I doing? I'm playing. Playing hard. Really hard. I've never been particulary nimble or quick, but by pushing hard I can keep up with just about anyone in this group.
Why? Why punish my body like this? Why try so hard when it doesn't really mean anything?

Because it's not punishment. It's love.

Love of life, and love for my body--for the fact that I can run and jump and hurl myself through the air and catch and throw and fall and laugh. It makes me feel alive. Truly, truly alive. Something in me loosens, for better or worse, making me just a tad wild and loud and flamboyant and perhaps, depending on your persepective, totally nuts. Those who know me are nodding their heads. Perhaps laughing. They've seen me like this.

So, even though I'll need a hot pad for my back after the game, I'll do it again. And again. Because life should be more than just sort of trying. Sometimes, you gotta push it. I'll never be an all-star, and I'll certainly never look attractive while doing it--but I do it, gladly.

I fall again, as three of us collide. I roll over my shoulder onto the cold turf, and laugh. I'm not the only one laughing. I bet God is laughing to, delighting in the fact that I delight in this body he's made me. And laughing because I look so silly.