I Feel Deflated Part II

The images which surround this post tell the tale of my hour-long punishment tonight. I honestly can't remember the last time I slapped on some Bermuda shorts (I don't know if I had ever heard of this term before), kissed my wife good bye, and headed off for some manly, sweaty action. That could actually be because I haven't played a substantive game of basketball since before I was married . . . or maybe even before my mission for that matter (started Feb. 2004). The F-word might contest this declaration but regardless, it's been a while.

For those of you with more decades than you have automobiles, you know what this feels like (not dissimilar to the descriptive display presented here).

Since I've almost got a quarter of a century on my own odometer, I don't want to cry about anything, but my lungs are about as dependable as a Ford Pinto. I could swear that I heard Sparky Pulastri yell from the bleachers, "You, you have weak lungs!" Honestly, my chest literally felt like it was on, well, fire. (Hence the image.)

I'm not sure if I'm just more out of shape than the Newman character on Toy Story (you know, the chicken suit crazy from Al's Toy Barn) or if my lungs are seriously messed up. One thing's for sure though:

There's nothing like a bunch of salty, unskilled, uncoordinated, and grown men playing ball. This is the stuff really weird children's books are made of!