The Falcon. And why I have an irrational fear of balls flying about my person.

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I have an irrational fear of balls flying about my person. I have been known to cop a falcon over the years. Mainly when I am sitting at the sidelines of one of Horatio’s rugby matches, where I will be sitting and nattering away and I will hear that dreaded warning….

“HEADS!”

And then everyone will look up to see where the ball is travelling to. Everyone but me, because I know that fucking ball is about to scon me on my noggin. So I drop my head down into my shoulders and cover my head with my arms… waiting for impact. More often than not, it doesn’t hit me, but my strike rate is significant, so I always take precaution.

The most damaging falcon that has affected me occurred when we had a group of mates over for a BBQ. The outside table was laden with food, glasses and bottles of wine etc, when a wayward kick landed on it, smashing the lot. It was like a detonated bomb.

Getting “falconed” comes hand in hand with having kids. Just ANOTHER little something they neglect to tell you in the maternity ward. And you are very susceptible if you have a big yard that every afternoon, houses a neighbourhood ball game of any sort, be it cricket, soccer, footy or tennis. When it comes to balls that  I prefer to be hit with, I would take a tennis ball any day of the week. Sure, they pack a quick sting, but you are less likely to be knocked out.

Sometimes, one of the kids will come inside from the game crying…

“I just got falconed..” weeping. And I would totally sympathise because I know exactly how they feel. A mixture of pain and humiliation.

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Current Collection of things that want to hurt me.

Yesterday, I was on the receiving end of a non-tradional falcon. A traditional falcon would see the ball connect with the top of your head. I copped one…TO THE FACE.

You see, I was out on the road with Horatio who wanted me to send back the drop kicks that he wanted to perfect. I didn’t see much danger in this, as my back wasn’t turned and my focus was entirely on that ball. He sent up a few good ones, and then one that fell a bit short. Much like cats, rugby balls are very, very unpredictable and as it bounced about two metres in front of me, it picked up the pace due to its projectory, and rose up quickly, fair smacking me across the face.

I saw stars. There were a lot of them. Mr. Woog heard my cry and raced out to the road.

“Mum got face falconed.” Horatio told him. Mr. Woog was sympathetic and took over drop-kick duties. And I took myself off to my room for a sulk and to lick my wounds.

And why I have an irrational fear of balls flying about my person.

Have you ever tried to catch a ball with your head?

Do you have an irrational fear of something ridiculous?