2004

Body

How to tri

June

Brandon Ferguson
OP Contributor

Oh God, my aching body.

It’s funny how separated my body
has become from my brain. I remem-
ber being an athlete. | remember hay-
ing ability. I remember not feeling
like roadskill after a simple game of
soccer. Without these remembrances
it would be so much easier to deal
with the searing pain and, paradoxi-
cally, the lethargic stiffness that now
defines my muscles, joints, and
bones. What the hell has happened to
me?

Last week I played soccer for the
first time in years. The beautiful sport
kicked my awkward ass. I am playing
this beautiful game to kick my ugly
habits. What better way, I thought, to
give up smoking, drinking, drugs—
all around stagnancy, if you will—
than by forcing myself to move for
prolonged periods of time?

Oh God, my aching body.

As someone who smokes, I notice
certain things. How difficult more
than four stairs can be, for instance.
The quality of my breathing—is it a
clear alveolar day, or a wet wheezy
one? The yellowness of my fingers—I
know for a fact that I haven't been
near a highlighter, or a textbook, all
day. Children playing in the park
with their parents—I’ve decided to
quit smoking when I have children,
but how can I have children if my
choked bloodstream eventually ren-
ders me impotent? Stopping to smell
the roses is a misnomer; it is the
smelly smokers who observe the little
things in life because we have less of it
left to appreciate.

Cigarettes are small, like a rabbit's
dream. Cigarettes are little, like croc-
odile tears. Life is an accumulation of
the little things you keep in your
shoebox; but death is the culmination
of the little things like cigarettes that
come home and make you rue the
day Tommy offered you one. After
years of smoking, | wondered: how
would it affect me on the soccer
pitch?

Burning lungs, aching muscles, pro-
fuse sweating, constant coughing—I
expected these things to happen, but

v. Brain:

yourself into good health.

they didn’t. Instead, I felt a great pres-
sure on my brain. It felt like Camryn
Manheim was standing on a golf tee
planted in my cerebellum. It felt like
two miniature trains colliding in a
tunnel through my cortex, spilling
their miniature loads of chlorine and
mousetraps. It felt like I was being
attacked by a guilty conscience
aneurysm. It felt shitty. I subbed
myself off.

On the sidelines is such a sucky
place to be—metaphorically, literally,
in every connotation it carries. It’s no
fun, its so glum, it’s so just me,
myself, and I. Standing there, con-
templating my astounding level of
suck while on the field, wheezing
hard while wondering whether or not
it would be possible to quickly sneak
a smoke, I was left alone to my lethar-
gy, pondering what once was.

There was a point in time when |
was physically fit: I played soccer for
a dozen years; I worked out religious-

ly for a half-dozen (though there is
only so much meat one can willingly
force onto bone); I’ve played in hock-
ey, basketball, and baseball leagues;
and I was always willing to try any-
thing new and active. Now sports are
my nemesis, smokes my namesake.
Getting back in shape seems bleaker
than my black lungs.

Which is kind of exciting.

I always expect to do well in what-
ever I do (who doesn’t?). Stepping on,
then off, then on again to the field
last week, I felt like a reincarnated
foreigner in a faraway land, unsure of
what the hell I was doing there, yet
somehow familiar with the landscape.
In a former life as an athlete, I ruled
this game. In my current incarnation
as a slug, it’s exciting to be so bad at
something that I was so good at
before. As a friend pointed out to me,
“Dude, you have absolutely nowhere
to go but up.” I smiled and said
thanks. He replied that it wasn’t a

 

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compliment.

My brain has twisted my suck into
an inspiration of sorts. My body will
remember what it once was, and
though it will still be restricted by
inability, my body will fight hard to
extend its boundaries. My brain has
conspired to rationalize all the sins I
continue to commit against my body,
and my body has retired from the
pain, placing all that pressure back on
to my brain. Injured by this retalia-
tion, my brain has gotten on board,
putting the “meat” back in “team,”
inspiring my body to reclaim its past
non-bony throne; my vices are
wheezing hard under the mounting
pressure. With both body and brain
united, maybe, hopefully, I can try
my vices for treason, convict my vices
as criminal, and hang my vices out to
dry.

Good God I need a smoke first

though. Aww man—they’re upstairs.

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