The projectile is traveling in a parabolic path with an increasing angle of elevation. Factoring in initial height of launch, estimated projectile mass of .62 kilograms, and current wind resistance, proportional to the square of the projectile's velocity, of course, it can be accurately calculated that the projectile's final destination in its trajectory is—
"Simmons! Heads up, fucker!"
Richard Simmons' forehead.
Before he can blink, he's flat on his back, staring wide-eyed up at the blue sky. The burrs in the grass pinch his skin through his uniform, and a red knot immediately blossoms across his brow.
The six girls on his team gather above him and stare down in amusement and annoyance.
"You daydreaming dumbass!"
"Do you think staring at the ball will catch it for you?"
"That was funnier than the time he tripped and plowed face-first into your tits, Sara."
"Shut up. I had to shower twice a day for a week to feel clean again."
"Simmons, what the hell?" growls his team captain.
It's funny—she sounds exactly like his father at the kitchen table two weeks ago, when the letter requesting to put his son in the men's league came back from the coaches with a firm rejection ("Oh, that kid? Fuck no. Try the women's league."). His father had brandished the letter in his face over his pork chops and demanded, "What the hell?"
"Well, I don't know the answer to that question," Simmons had said, "but I could probably tell you the answers to fundamental questions of the universe if you would just let me join the mathletes—"
"If the women's league is the only way to get you on the field, so be it," his father had grumbled. "And hell, at the rate you're going, maybe the field is the only way to get you on a woman…"
His mother had clucked in disapproval and Simmons had moped into his mashed potatoes the rest of the evening, and the next day he was running drills with his new team. His loud, militant, terrifying new team, who glare down at him now with the same desire to kill him as they had that first day.
The team captain looks around at the rest of the squad. "Simmons Shooting after practice today," she announces. The game entails putting Simmons against a wall and pelting the ever-loving shit out of balls at him until he manages to catch one.
"Yes! Sounds good, Cap!" The rest of the team high-five one another and jog away in all their athletic, psychotic glory.
One of them, a particular teammate whose pastime isn't kicking him in the shins, hangs behind and stares down at him with pity. She's usually the scariest one of all, because she's nice.
"The last time we played Simmons Shooting, you couldn't walk for days," she reminds him. "It's probably in your best interest to learn how to catch a ball, isn't it?" When he doesn't move and just stares at her in fear, she sighs and extends her hand. "Come on, Dick. Up you get."
He blinks, and a blush spreads over his cheeks. "U-um…" he stutters.
She shakes her head in exasperation. "Simmons. Relax. That was called a joke." She grabs his hand and helps him to his feet.
"Right!" he says, his voice cracking. He shrugs like he doesn't care. Like he's not soul-shatteringly embarrassed. "I knew that."
"Maybe you should put in some extra hours after practice, you know? Run some sprints, lift some weights, work on your coordination. You could probably turn out to be a valuable member of the team, if you just focus and put in a little eff…" Her eyes squint to the ground. A few feet away lies the crown of daisies he had been tying during timeouts.
There's a stunned pause. Simmons flushes and murmurs, "You can have it if you want…"
She drags a hand over her face. "You know what? Never mind, Simmons. Just stick to your slide rules and protractors."
The sport is meant to be ambiguous. I have no idea what they're supposed to be playing.
I figured Simmons' dad would be a hardnosed old-fashioned type, hence Simmons' sycophantic relationship with Sarge.
Also. I majored in English. Not Physics. Yes, I went to Wikipedia and picked out some random words and threw them into a sentence in hopes they sounded like Smart Physics.