Back when I was an active teenager in college, I loved participating in sports activities. I love the adrenalin rush, the cheering audience is music to my ears and every drop of sweat meant some sort of achievement to me.

I was in the Engineering department and with a limited number of females enrolled, the department chief had to force us to play in different sports just so we can be mentioned in the printed games program. Mainly, I was a representative for table tennis. It was the most convenient game for me as I don’t have to brawl with toughies to get that one ball and I only had to compete with myself, unless of course if we are playing doubles.

After a witting game that earned the Engineering department the first place, I heard one teacher calling saying that we need to rush to the gym to play basketball. Did I just mention I hate brawling over one silly ball? We were to compete with the more feminine department and when we got there, they were ready, costumes and all.

The game started. The crowd was so loud I couldn’t even hear my own breathing. The girls with me had great team play and for one bit, I was sure we could win. I could not remember all the details of that gory game but I remembered when someone tried to grab the ball I was dribbling when the opponent’s hand did not touch the ball, instead, her long and sharp fingernails (they were indeed feminine!) scratched my bare arm. My arms turned pink with the mixture of blood and sweat. I continued to play despite the searing pain until the referee cried out, “FOUL!”

This writing exercise is fueled by the writing prompt “foul” at Sunday Scribblings.