Baseball Boo Boo

   Every year around this time, I think about my little league days and how I missed out of playing every single baseball game when I was in the second grade.  It was early in the season, not even close to our first game, when we were still trying to figure out the rules.  T-ball hadn't been invented yet, so we started out with pitchers and catchers and lots of walks and strike outs.  I think the rule for us was 6 balls before a walk, and 4 strikes for a strike out.  Or something like that.

   Anyway, one day some of us got there early and, being back in the days when it was acceptable for 8-year-olds to hang out without adult supervision on a playground next to a busy street, we decided to do what little boys do.  Climb things.  At one end of the playground was a chain-link backstop that beckoned to be conquered, so we started to climb.

   We were about three-fourths of the way up, when our coach, Mike Nash's dad, was spotted pulling up at the diamond at the other end of the playground.

   "The coach is here!" we began shouting as we started back down the backstop.  I didn't want to be the last one down (I mean, who wants to be a rotten egg?), so I leaped backwards, depending on gravity to help me.

   Unfortunately, gravity was not too kind to me that day.  My heels hit sooner than expected and I fell backwards.  With lightning reflexes, I whipped my arms back to break my fall, and thus saving me from a sore tailbone.

   Crack!

   "This dirt is really hot today," I remember thinking, my wrists feeling like they were on fire.  I looked at my hands, which were having a hard time functioning normally.  Each time I tried to wiggle a finger, pain shot up my arm.

   I had no idea what was happening, and I thought that maybe I'd somehow landed on a swarm of bees.  So off I dashed toward the school building where I figured I'd use one of the outdoor water fountains to cool that burning sensation in both of my wrists.

   I'm not sure if it was Paul Shadid or Bobby Clark who was with me when I got to the faucets, but my arms were shrieking with pain as I tried to turn the knob.  Whoever it was managed to get the water going and we washed off the dirt and sweat and I was amazed at how big my wrists had grown.

   "We better tell Mr. Nash," my buddy said.

   "No!" I replied.  "We'll get in trouble for climbing on the backstop!"

   We went down to the field and it was clear that I couldn't get my glove on or hold a ball.

   I'm pretty sure it was either Mr. Nash or maybe Mr. Clark who took me home.  My mom kinda freaked a little, and got me into our car and drove me to the hospital.

   The hospital!  I really did NOT want to go to the hospital.  Every time I'd been to a hospital or a doctor's office I ended up getting a shot.  In the butt.  I hated getting shots!  (NOTE:  Shots aren't so bad now, considering the other pains I've endured in my less-than-graceful dance through life).

   I wanted an aspirin or something, I kept saying.  I didn't want a shot, or an operation, or a gas mask.  Just some aspirin, or something cold to pour over my wrists.  The nurses and orderlies were muttering something about broken bones.  And they'd look my way.

   "No!"  I yelled.  "I'm fine!"

   I was picturing them strapping me down to an operating table and having Dr. Frankenstein come in to do something to me.

   I flapped my arms up and down, trying to get my hands to work.  Boy, THAT was probably one of the dumbest things I'd done so far in my eight years on this planet.  The pain was white-hot and things got a little purplish-bluish-white for a second.

   A nurse turned as white as her uniform and nearly fainted, which I thought oddly funny.  She screamed, "Stop!"

   I stopped.  I just wanted the pain to stop.  I didn't really care if I got a shot at this point because nothing had ever hurt that bad before.

   I settled down after that, which seemed to have a calming effect on my mom and everybody at the hospital.

   I got X-rays.  That was pretty cool.  The room was dark and cool, and the surfaces I got to rest my arms on were cool, which also seemed to help.

   I got both arms in casts, from the bend in my elbows to my fingers.
   Green-stick fractures, they said.  

   I spent six weeks in those casts.  And I missed my first season playing baseball.

   But at least I didn't have to get a shot.  :)