I recently joined a social group which runs an indoor football session each week. With it being a regular thing, the guys all know each other, while I am new to the group.

Towards the end of the hour, everyone is getting tired and sweaty, and this tends to make people stop paying attention. One guy attempts to showboat, so when I go in and tackle him, he doesn’t see me and ends up standing awkwardly on my foot and going down. Less Messi, more Suarez…

He starts wailing about how he has badly hurt his foot, and everyone stops and swarms him, asking him if he is okay. Meanwhile, I’m having flashbacks to seven years ago where I received a high ankle sprain from a similar incident.

I end up escorting him to the walk-in clinic across the road from the sports centre, along with his girlfriend. When we get there, I explain the situation to the receptionist, who puts his details into the system. Throughout all of this, he continues to wail about how he is in so much pain from his foot, to the point where he can’t concentrate enough to give information. It should be noted that the social group caters to people with conditions like ADHD for the other guy, and the autistic spectrum for all three of us. It should also be noted that of the three, I actually have technical medical knowledge, so can act as translator for “doctor speak” for the others.

After ninety minutes of waiting, as well as a physical examination and five x-rays, the doctor confirms two things: that there is nothing physically wrong with his foot — he just overextended and put unnecessary pressure on the outside of his foot when he stepped on me — and that this guy is a ”gigantic” hypochondriac, to mine and the girlfriend’s utter amusement. 

The doctor takes it in stride, saying that unfortunately, they don’t have medication to fix the latter, but a bit of ice and elevation will help with the former. Cue the chuckles all round the following week!

(I am working the cashier at a store during football season when an older woman comes through my line with a couple of things.)

Me: “Oh, this shirt is cute!”

Customer: “They still have some over in the sports section if you want to grab one after work.”

Me: “Oh, it’s okay. I’m not a big fan of football. I just like the style of shirt.”

Customer: “Honey, you live in Bronco country, and if you don’t like that you have to leave!”

(I have no idea what to say after that, so I finish processing her transaction.)

Me: “Have a nice day!”

Customer: “Learn to love football or you’ll never find a husband!”

(There is a sports competition called Super Rugby, which features sides from Argentina, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa, with sides travelling to face each other over a period of a few months. All the matches are televised in all the nations. It’s Saturday lunchtime at the newspaper where I work, and the phone rings.)

Me: “Good day, [Newspaper].”

Caller: *who sounds a bit grumpy* “Why wasn’t the match between the Highlanders [another NZ team] and Christchurch Crusaders on this morning?”

Me: “The NZ Rugby Union cancelled it, sir, because of the terror attack in Christchurch yesterday.”

Caller: “But they are professionals; they should have played!”

Me: “…”

I don’t have cable, and my favorite football team is playing their biggest rival on a Monday night, on cable. I go to my favorite sports bar which is down the block from our city’s downtown arena, where a big nu-metal concert is going on.

The bar is empty except for me, and in the third quarter a group of two older couples obviously coming from or going to the concert come in. They load the digital jukebox with nu-metal songs. The football commentary disappears and Disturbed songs take over.

The bartender, as invested in the game as I am — it’s an extremely close and hotly contested game, as games between these two teams tend to be — switches the audio feed back and offers the couples refunds.

For the remainder of the game, all four take up seats a foot behind me and loudly and vociferously decide they are adamant fans of my team’s rival. They’re not doing anything technically wrong that the bartender can kick them out for, but they’re being total jerks, including surrounding me to shout cheers for my team losing on a last-second field goal.

After I close out my tab, the bartender takes my pint glass, refills it to the brim, and leans in and says, “Kill that; don’t kill them,” and lets me keep the souvenir pint glass advertising my favorite seasonal beer.

Didn’t make the loss any better, but it helped deal with a group of real-life trolls.

(I am roughly eight years old. I have never been athletically gifted, and this is an example. In gym, we are playing a type of dodgeball where one of the rules is no running with the ball. I have just caught a ball and I start to run.)

Teacher: “[My Name], no running with the ball!”

Me: “Oh, sorry!”

(I start to walk very slowly.)

Teacher: “What did I say? No running!”

Me: “Is this still running to you?”

(I start to walk even more slowly.)

Teacher: “No, you can’t run with the ball!”

(Now I’m completely confused and just stand there, looking at her.)

Teacher: “When you are holding the ball, you have to stay in place; you can’t move around.”

Me: “Oh… that’s what that means.”