So, the other day I had a missed call from my brother. Now, this is a seemingly normal incident for any other human being, but not so much for me. You see, my brother probably calls me, directly, less than six times a year. But don’t get the wrong idea, we’re all well and good and close and all, he’s just never been a man a many words. Especially not on the phone.
Just to give you a taste, our phone conversations over the course of the last year or so have gone a little something like this:
“I’m getting married.”
“I’m having a baby.”
“I’m looking to get wasted tonight.”
So when I realize he had called me, I figured it was one of three things; something good, something bad, or something pertaining to beer. But when I got him on the line I was delighted to discover he actually had an agenda.
“So, what are you doing March 4th and 5th?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Well, there’s this charity dodgeball tournament at our old high school and I really think we could kill it.”
Dodgeball? Dodgeball? Was he really fucking serious? Yes. He was. Utterly and completely. Apparently, he had assembled a solid team of retired high-school-sports-superstars like himself, and was ready to crush the competition. The only glitch was he needed two girls to play. That’s where little sis comes in. In addition, I was advised to bring a friend. “And make sure she’s athletic.”
As I’m sharing the complete ridiculousness of the situation with a friend from work, her face becomes illuminated. She wants in. And she’s serious. Turns out, hidden beneath her fashionable façade lives a retired All-County volleyball player. Not to mention, she has a brother is in the NFL so she’s got aggression in her genes. She’s perfect! A huge asset to our team.
The following day she and I attend an informational seminar on the new Norma Kamali for Everlast sportswear line. It’s a fabulous collection of fashion/function pieces made out of terrycloth and lycra. One glance at the lookbook and we turn to each other in unison, “dodgeball uniforms!” we whisper, as our eyes widen with disbelief, never imagining such perfection could literally land in our laps.
After much discussion, we narrow the choices to a one-piece number. Spandex booty-shorts attached to a blousy, ¾-sleeve, boatneck top. It’s #119. We pull the sales rep aside to inquire about special ordering some pieces for ourselves. She’s totally down. So how’s this for a visual? I have not been back to my high school in the nearly six years since I graduated and now I’m going to prance in in a one-piece Norma Kamali lyrca jumper, ready to draw blood at a charity dodgeball tournament? I can’t even. Too much…..
Final Word: We’re totally taking home a trophy. How could we miss? We have a squad of superstars ready to come out of retirement, Norma included.
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