The kids at school used to call me SuperMiss, such was my perchant for uncoordinated misses of things.
And like Hans Gruber’s sole remaining relative would agree (if there was one and he was also in the burglary business), Old Habits Die Hard.
And so this missing habit, that I mentioned, became ingrained.
If I had one dollar for every time I heard “Ya missed it again huh Fraser? Too bad!”, I’d be a rich man.
But lately, that has all changed. I am delighted to announce my second man of the match in two weeks.
In the last year, I’ve got from sport pariah to sport Hero. But lets not make me sound like a dick with a swell head.
Lets just all acknowledge that I may be turning into a supernova or a superhero or something crazy.
The game itself was a suicide mission for the nannas, but as it was a forfeit fungame, which didn’t count, we can rack that up to training, and experience.
Men, that was the best game of any sport I’ve ever played. It felt like a demonic occupier with amazing soccer skills had possessed my form, and this macabre puppetmaster, was playing the game for me.
Or maybe it was the night beams meditation. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get possessed, but then, how the hell did I play like that? I kept going over it and over it…where did my speed come from, I’ve never had speed before. And then I figured it out.

Kettle Bells. What’s your weight?