Some time ago, I decided to pay heed to the theory that there is no such thing as a coincidence.  To make sure I don’t get carried away, there is a little rule of threes.  Any time the same specific subject comes up three times within a short period of time, I go for it.  As I tend to have a strong will and sometimes push for things that maybe shouldn’t be, it becomes my way to trying to go with the flow.  If the universe takes the trouble of telling me something over and over then I better pay attention.

This has led to some fairly innocuous results such as reading a health book and discovering some easy remedies, to the more complicated tasks, like starting my own business.  But all in all, it usually works out for the best no matter how logical the start may be.

Fortunately for me, I have family and friends who are used to me thinking of some bizarre new project and who generally smile and nod when I bring it up.  Usually my revelations involve travel, career directions or a new found interest in lock picking.   Imagine their surprise when at age thirty-three, this full time mother of two, and part time business owner, decided to go out for women’s professional football.  

Now I didn’t exactly see everyone’s reaction, because I announced it via Facebook and text message, but I imagine it involved a bit of head shaking and forehead smacking.  The first responders were friends who seemed excited by this prospect, followed by a response from my husband; which read, “I am strongly opposed to it by the way. But, who I am kidding. I have zero influence on what Kelly does.”  Ah, love knows no bounds.  

I always wanted to play football.  We tried to start a powder puff team in high school, but the athletic director was so strongly opposed he issued all kinds of threats to stop us in our tracks.  After college I managed to play co-ed flag football started by some of the sales guys in our tech company.  That was tremendous fun, giving me new appreciation for the game, but on a team with a quarter back who never threw to the women, it left a lot to be desired.  

So, my sporting days has largely been confined to what I did in high school and college.  A lot of basketball and softball, some soccer.  I’m not ashamed to say I was pretty good at the first two sports, although softball is my favorite by far.  My senior year signaled the end of my competitive spirit though as I discovered that my on court and field antics and health problems stemmed from a horribly bad temper.  I’d get so angry that I caused my own blood pressure to drop, sometimes freaking out or coming close to passing out on the field.  With no clue how to control it, I basically resigned myself to the bench and picked a college with almost no athletic program, much the disappointment of my father who I’m sure had planned on me getting a scholarship at least of a division III school.

Such is life.  Years later, after the birth of my second daughter and the horrible sight in the mirror at the baby weight, I decided that a prudent way to get back into shape was to start light and join a softball team.  

I hate co-ed sports by the way.  It isn’t that I’m scared or intimidated, or anything of the sort.  For some reason, I feel like the entire female half of the human race is dependent upon me.  As though every time I’m the representation and every guy’s view of women and how good they are at sports is dependent upon my at bat.  That is too much pressure for a beer league.

So our house painter plays in a softball league and invites me out after seeing me play catch with my husband.  I join the first scrimmage of the season, play outfield, tear my ACL in what was probably the third inning.  Seriously. I mean whose idea was it to put orange cones in the outfield?  Coming in for a pop fly, I’m headed right for one, try to stop and (thirty pounds heavier that I should be) pop goes the right knee.

Softball put on hold while I get surgery and to go physical therapy for 4 months and another 6 to heal.  Around that time, I read an article about and write an email to the So Cal Scorpions, San Diego’s women’s professional football team.   My husband immediately nixes it sighting that I’m just coming back from a massive knee injury and the last thing I need to do is play a sport involving lots of hitting and agility.  Touche.

So Cal Scorpions become national champions, the league they play in closes to restructure and apparently does nothing for the next two years.  

Dissolve to December 2009.  I’ve completed one tiny triathlon, which is my husband’s sport, but due to scar tissue in my calves I really can’t run more than half a mile without cramping up like an old lady late for a bridge game.  I decide after watching two competitive dance television shows that maybe ballroom would be a fun way to lose the stubborn 15 baby pounds that keep hanging on.  I find a dance studio and a chiropractor who specializes in Active Release Therapy (read: really, really painful massage).  

Christmas day arrives and I lay on the couch with my daughters cheering our beloved Chargers on to victory.  My oldest daughter Caty says, “Mommy, can girls play football?”

I say, ”Of course they can, baby.”

She responds, “Then why don’t I see any?”

Observant little girl I have.  Mommy thinks quickly, “Because those men out there are much older than you, they are about my age.  When I was little, girls didn’t really play football, so you won’t see any out there.  But you can play football if you want.”

Caty is satisfied with that answer and we continue to watch the game.  

Four days later, we go to the mall to return yet another failed gift that I got for my husband.  As we are leaving the store, I hold the door for another mom who has kids about my own’s ages (5 and 4), is roughly my size and is wearing a So Cal Scorpions sweatshirt.  I do a double and triple take, but don’t say anything.  

That evening, I get an email from the Scorpions’ recruiter about the last day of open tryouts on Saturday, January 9, 2010.  Now I know I am just on their mailing list, and I’ve deleted numerous emails for them; but I have my rule of three.  That was three.  

And so, I think about it for another day, and then without warning, announce to my social network that I am a complete jackass and am trying out for the Scorpions.   Two water polo teammates from our YMCA are crazy enough to congratulate me and one even signs up herself to try out.   

I buy a football (yeah, didn’t really own a functional football), see if I can run an entire 800 without fainting and try to time myself on a 40 yard dash.  

I check to make sure my soccer cleats still fit because I’m not buying new ones unless I make it to camp.

I watch “Invincible” to psych myself up for tryouts and really just succeed in checking out Mark Wahlberg’s biceps and getting worried.

The good news is that the ART therapy seems to have worked because I can run without pulling anything, my arm is in good shape and for the first time in years I’m excited about getting in shape for something.

Even better, my daughters are excited too. “Mommy is going to play FOOTBALL!!!”   The concept of a tryout is hard to explain to a kindergartener. Here’s hoping I make the team, I’m not sure there is a Sesame Street episode to explain getting cut.