EXCERPT FROM BALL: A TRAUMEDY by Brian Lobel

A Two-Ballist,
Scroto-centric World

 

Here on the beautiful island of Manhattan , I, Brian Lobel, was coming out... as a cancer patient.

In the burbs, I was starring as THE cancer patient, whereas here, I could pass for random cancer patient, bulimic #2 or third heroine addict from the left, and no one would pay me more or less attention because of how I looked. I wanted to blend, to regain anonymity, and to go a full day without someone asking me about my ball or my bowel movements.

 

And then it happened, my bowels attacked me while driving through the Lincoln Tunnel and so, out of dire necessity, I found myself sitting on a, ugh, toilet at Port Authority. As if the experience of having diarrhea in Port Authority - the MOST disgusting place on earth - wasn't jarring enough for my pampered ass, I was nearly forgetting the germs when I saw it...a stall-sized graffitied picture of genitals, it's scrotum completely in tact. I could count the visible bumps - 1,2,1,2,2,2…

 

Even when I finished cancer treatment and hopefully regained acceptance into the world of the living by my family and friends, I would never escape the two-ball-centric reality that plagues our society. Every single sphere, orb, wheel, baseball, softball, tennis ball, golf ball, football, sushi roll or other round object, a constant reminder of my one ball status in this two-ballist, scrotocentric world. Even my favorite adult toy store was no more of an ally in my struggle. Their blatant display of full-scrotum-ed dildos and white chocolate penises was just one example of them flaunting their complete-sac privilege. COCK & BALLS, COCK & BALLS! WOULD YOU LIKE A NUT? DO YOU PLAY BASKETBALL? HAVE A BALL! SUCK MY BALLS! THAT TAKES BALLS! LET'S GET THE BALL ROLLING! GET ON THE BALL. BALLS. BALLS. NUTS. BALLS. NUTS. NUTS. BALLS.

 

This is NOT the material I wanted for my autobiography. BALLS. I wanted to write a love story. NUTS. BALLS. I wanted to write a long, beautiful and inspirational story. COCK and BALLS. NUTS and BALLS. I wanted to write a play that my mother, Caryn Lobel, would not be ashamed for her friends to see. NUTS. NUTS. COJONES. NUTS. I wanted to write a play that didn't make everyone grab their crotch or feign sympathy. And, most importantly, I wanted to wait until I lived a whole life before I had enough material for my one-man show. But this is what I have. Write what you know. I have one ball.