Wall Balls a Hate Letter
Wall Balls. How I *loathe* you. But you already know that, don’t you? It’s not that you’re heavy or cumbersome—no, no, no. You’re a fluffy, oversized dodgeball from a nightmare gym class. You and I both know it’s your *character* that’s the problem.
Every time I pick you up, I think, “Hey, maybe it’ll be different this time.” But nope! It’s always the same story. I squat down, heave your dumb, sand-filled carcass into the air, and watch you *ever-so-slightly* miss the target like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Thanks for making me feel like I’ve got the aim of a blindfolded stormtrooper. Truly inspirational.
And let’s not forget how you love to crash back down, like a meteor of shame, smacking me right in the face. I’m starting to think you’re just mad I don’t take you out for brunch or something. Sorry, but I’m not into 20-pound spheres that smell like the tears of exhausted CrossFitters.
I mean, what *are* you even training me for? Competitive watermelon-tossing? An obstacle course where I’m doomed to constantly chase after bouncing exercise equipment? If so, thank you for preparing me for absolutely zero real-life scenarios.
But hey, despite it all, you do have a special place in my heart—or at least in my poor, overworked quads. Because every time I think I’m done with you, you show up again on the WOD, staring at me from across the gym with that smug, stitchy smile.
So here’s to you, Wall Balls. You relentless, sadistic, perfectly miserable piece of equipment. May you forever bounce away from me—preferably into oncoming traffic.