Sports Heroes and the Heimlich

I came out of the womb with a basketball in hand, track spikes on, and a sweatband ’round my brow. Kicking the placenta aside, I ran to the nearest court for my first game of H-O-R-S-E. For years the heroes in my life were athletes — Jackie Joyner Kersey, Florence Griffith Joyner, Michael Jordan — and then somehow Whitney Houston slipped her way into the top four or five on my list (that was BEFORE all the crack). I remember watching baseball on TV or at my brother’s little league games and admiring the amount of bubblegum one human being could physically fit in his mouth. Wads. I mean…WADS. And so I began my quest to stretch out my cheeks in order to become a REAL athlete…the kind with a grapefruit-sized wad lodged between her teeth. Daily jaw exercises and inserting pens sideways in my mouth couldn’t have prepared me for the intense cramping I’d experience in my mandible. Pain. Worse than any twisted ankle, muscle cramp, broken bone, or 1-point loss to your rival. This was Bubblegum Pain, folks. And the culprit, Big League Chew and his nasty cousin, Double Bubble.

7 years later: Middle School. “Must…make…a…good…impression. Must…be…cool.” And oh how I was that evening. I stepped out of my mom’s blue Ford Taurus, metallic basketball shorts down to my knobby knees. Insert Double Bubble Piece #1. And what rockin’ cool ankle braces I had. Insert Piece #2. Was that a NIKE wristband I was wearing?? NOT generic?? Insert Piece #3. Did I have the athlete strut down or what? Piece #4 and 5.

I WAS IT. The real deal. The athlete I longed to be ever since I was 5. I popped my sixth and final Double Bubble into my mouth and headed towards the gym for practice. The jaw cramps started quicker than I could run the 50-yard dash. The saliva build up was Niagara-esque. The gagging uncontrollable. The choking unbearable. The spitting all too necessary for such a situation.

 

And the humiliation…overwhelming. I ran to the nearest trashcan, removed the baseball from my mouth, bit a fourth of it off for keeps and sheepishly walked into the gym, head down, eyes misty.

 

I failed them all. Not my teammates on my intramural basketball team. No. I failed Jackie, Florence, Michael…even Whitney. I was the idiot, wanna-be-athlete, fool of the century. I couldn’t chew my grapefruit without requesting backup from First Aid. I was a failure.

 

Never again have I attempted to climb Mt. Double Bubble. It conquered me that day. I stand defeated and humbly tip my ball cap to all the REAL athletes out there with a melon in their mouth. Make us proud, athletes. Make us proud.