In Which Our Hero Falls. Hard.

The warmer weather has come to the Carolinas. While this reminds me of two things that I don't like about this area--lack of sidewalks and the need to mow the lawn in April--it also means that I can bust out the grill earlier.

And so it was last night. Pork chops were the carnal delight of the day, and as I fired up the clean-burning, even-heating propane, the gourmand in me was positively aquiver with excitement over the notion of sinking my teeth into some delicious chops.

As the meat was slowly processing through its Maillard reaction, I looked at the basketball goal standing next to the building where I was cooking.

"Come to me," it called.

This might qualify as 'exercise', I thought.

So, I picked up the ball and began shooting hoops. I was firing them in from five, ten, twenty, even thirty feet away. I stepped to the line--or what serves as a free-throw stripe in my back yard--and did the three bounces, spin, shoot. I hit the first two shots, then went back to firing from all over the back yard once more.

Now, the back edge of my property is hemmed in by a line of demarcation known as "the stream." As it burbles and bubbles and murmurs along, it does so along a stretch of my yard that is much higher than the level of the water. It's also a bit of a problem if you badly miss a shot with the basketball, as the ball will careen toward that part of the yard and, if one is not quick enough, one finds his ball in the water.

Such was the case when I stepped back to the free throw line last night. The ball hit the back of the rim in such a way that it flew off to the left. I immediately began running after it, but I wasn't quick enough and, just as I tried to reach for it, the ball went into the stream.

Sonuvabitch, I huffed and puffed internally. Now I'm going to have to get that fucker out of there.

For some strange reason, my kids are fascinated with sweeping the back yard. They take my push broom and sweep the grass. They're young, I'll grant them that, but still. Fucking weirdos. Anyway, the push broom was left in the back yard--it's 100% plastic (Fuck you, Planet!), so leaving it out isn't a problem in my book--so i went over to get it, thinking I could fish the ball out of the stream with the broom and then leave the ball to dry and I'd finish cooking.

As I was trying to matriculate the ball up the side of the bank--which, at the point where the ball fell into the water was nearly seven feet high and a sheer, straight cliff bank--things were not going swimmingly. I then decided that I should try and bat the ball upstream to a place where the bank comes in at a much more shallow angle. So, begin pushing and popping the ball toward such a place. As I was moving along, picking my route carefully, part of the bank crumbled beneath me.

And down goes Frazier.

With a mighty splash, I land in the stream. Fortunately, the waters had receded enough from the previous day's rains that I was in no danger of drowning or any such fate. Unfortunately, I was still soaked from the waist down and on my right side, which landed in the water.

Muttering curse words, I stood up, collected my broom, collected my ball, and started toward the ford, which was still a decent distance upstream. I climbed out, rolled the ball toward my basketball "court", dropped the broom, and squelched my way to the back door.

My shoes, which are two years old and on the cusp of ruination, anyway, were left on the back porch. I went into the house, going straight to the laundry room where I stripped down to my unders. My unders were wet, so I grabbed another pair out of the dryer and headed upstairs where I could wash up and find new clothes.

Upon entry into my bedroom, where my wife was sitting, watching a television show on her computer, I was greeted by stifled laughter.

"Why are you naked? And wet?" she asks.

"Why aren't you?" I wanted to retort. Instead, I went by my old standby: "I don't wanna talk about it."

"No, what happened?" she implored.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Tell me!"

I told the story.

More stifled laughter.

Dignity destroyed, I pulled on a pair of sweat pants, my brown shoes, and a t-shirt. I picked up a book and went back outside.

The worst part? The chops were a little overdone on one side. They were still fucking delicious, but not as moist and juicy as I had once envisioned.

When they were finally done, I took them inside, went back upstairs to tell the wife that the chops were done, and then I stripped again. I decided I wanted to shower before I ate my dinner and while the wife was fixing the rice and making a salad.

Because I got done at the same time as the rice, I ate naked.

The next time the ball goes into the stream--and there will be a next time--I'm going straight for the landing net hanging in the building beside the basketball court. This, sadly, was a solution that occurred to me as I was walking to get the broom.

"You know," I mused aloud, "I should just go get the landing net."

Hind-sight. She's 20/20. And apparently not soaking wet. Nor nearly as sore the next day.

And sore I am, too. Anyone wanna give me a massage?