Yesterday was novel.
I remember, at 11 years of age, seeing a lanky kid called Peter run after the football when someone missed the goal. When he returned to the goal line, he held the ball behind his head as though he was about to throw-in. I'm the sort of person who is physically embarrassed by others' embarrassment, and this made me cringe. Even unsporty, socially inept bookworm that I was, I knew you didn't throw-in from the goal line.
I've never been sporty, but after years and years of sort of hanging around sport, playing a bit here and there, sometimes unavoidable, sometimes voluntary, I've gotten the hang of all the rules, a little technique, and most importantly some of the talk, which means that I can at least temporarily hold my own on the sporting endeavour front.
Take that acquisition of knowledge and experience and move it 3,300 miles to the left.
Last night I played softball for the first time.
I felt 11 years old.
My fielding was atrocious, but I plead mud and gripless trainers.
I only got the chance to hit the ball once before being substituted off as late players arrived.
Out of the park is an out, apparently.
If that's the case they should put higher fricking walls on softball parks.
Bloody stupid rule.
Oh, and we lost.
Anyway, moving onto the adventures of socks. My sports bag has long languished at the bottom of my closet next to the dirty laundry basket. Somehow yesterday...I don't know how...a dirty sock got tangled in the straps. I picked the bag out of the closet, packed it with my sports kit, and went to work, all with the sock in situ. I don't know how I didn't notice. Black backpack, black sock. I rest the case for my ignorance.
I walked to the subway, and the sock held on.
I boarded the N/W, and the sock held on.
(God knows what my fellow commuters thought. Judging by their facial expressions on the trains it was something like, 'Oh look, a sock. Tra la la. Tum te tum.')
Four subway stops; the bag taken off and left on the floor, and the sock held on.
The bag was kicked around a bit and trodden on, and the sock held on.
I disembarked at 59th and Lex, jostled on all sides, and the sock held on.
But then, in the steaming herd of descending transferring commuters from the N/W to the 4/5/6, the sock was shaken free and dropped ahead of me on the steps. I didn't see it fall from the bag, I just saw it tumble by.
'Oh look, a sock,' I thought. 'Tra la la. Tum te tum.'
Down on the 4/5 platform an announcement was made. The 4/5 wasn't running, so me and my fellow commuters dutifully turned around and began the troop back up the stairs.
'Oh look,' I thought. 'There's that sock again. Tra la la. Tum te-HANG ON THAT'S ONE OF MINE.'
But by then it was too late. My fellow commuters and I were doing the dutiful troop, and you don't back up the flow of travelling workers in New York, or New York will have late workers who will miss trains and be late and lose revenue and go bankrupt and hate and blame you eternally.
So I left the sock where it was.
if you never actually saw the sock fall, how do you know it is one of yours? surely you're not the only one to posess black socks in New York....
It was one of mine, dude. Silvertoe. They're a brand. They have, um, silver coloured toes.
And it had that 'fresh from the dusty bottom of the closet' look about it.
And it looked at me reproachfully.
No wonder it was looking at you reproachfully. I was about to embark on a "socks have feelings, socks are people too, you know" rant. But if it's guiltripping you already, there's hardly a point. Just know that somewhere, right now, a sock is left to despair on its own.
Your socks appear to have a very exciting life, I look forward to hearing more about them shortly!
Er...okay.
Have you managed to find its lone partner to console?
I think it's in the clean batch of laundry I picked up last night.