When I was youth, I, like most other kid’s in suburbia participated in various semi-organized, little league sports. I appreciated the fact that my parents footed the bill for such extra-curricular activities; particularly since I really did not have any athletic prowess. The first organized team I played was Soccer or “football” for our friends from across the pond. It must have been somewhat difficult for my parents to see their spindley young son feebly run the half length of the field, since I was in fact a halfback, only to rarely if ever touch the ball.
Playing soccer as a child made me learn some life lessons at a very young age. But one of the most influential [lessons] had nothing to do with the actual playing of the game…
It was a bright and sunny afternoon when my mom informed me that today was picture day for our soccer team. Now I was familiar with the concept of picture day after a few years of elementary school under my belt at this point, but not that of a team photo. I was quite excited for this event. Don’t ask me why, I was eight years old, I would have probably become equally as excited if you told me we were having tacos for dinner, or that they just dropped the price on the GI Joe hovercraft. Click this link to view the Awesomery
I proceeded to dig through the dirty clothes hamper to find my soccer uniform, and after I quickly put on the mostly synthetic material, I headed out the door over to my friend Jody’s house. Jody was a fellow teammate and his mother was going to be our transportation to the photo shoot.
It was while en route to Jody’s house that the traumatic event that defined this fateful day occurred. And it will be burned into my memory forever:
You see, the house of my youth had a park strip that housed 2 large maple trees and a base composed of red bricks in a stagger pattern that replaced the more common stripe of grass that most houses had in our neighborhood. I only explain this as a means to set the stage for what transpired.
I ran out the front door of my house. Down the front stairs, across the overgrown grass like a laser-guided missile to Jody’s house, which was a mere 200 yards from my own.
As I crossed the threshold of the park strip, something terrible happened…still to this day I cannot fully explain which events actually lead to the impact. The impact of which I speak occurred when my left knee managed to clip the protruding part of the fire hydrant that dwelled in the eastern end of our park strip. Oh what sweet irony that a device that was supposed to serve as a bastion of human injury prevention was a stationary assassin to my fragile young kneecap.
Upon striking the fireplug, I proceeded to roll out into the cul-de-sac, picking up barnacles of gravel along the way. At this point in my young life, I had yet to ever break a bone – arm, leg or otherwise. As I rolled in the street in front of my house, I was sure that I had broken my knee. I cried the gigantic crocodile tears that could only be produced from such a harrowing injury. I looked around to see if there were any around that had seen my horrific pratfall – none had witnessed. My mom had heard my cries of agony and came rushing out to see her oldest son sprawled out in the street.
She consoled me, asking me what had occurred. I explained that the fire hydrant had come out of nowhere and had struck me on the knee causing me to stumble and roll out onto the road. She took me back into the house to take a look at my wounds. Now mind you in my nearly nine years of life I had never experienced such pain. I had many a BMX bike accident, a few rounds of stitches, but nothing that compared with the pain that was radiating from my left knee. I told my mother that I feared that I had broken my kneecap. I saw the genuine concern in her eyes, but then I noticed that it soon faded into a look of which I was not familiar.
It was then that I realized that my mom was trying to work out some sort of quandary in her head. I asked my mom what we were going to do. It was at this time that I realized what my mom was weighing in her mind… “You need to get over to Jody’s house so that you can get to the team pictures,” she coolly stated.
I was absolutely gob smacked.
“I will take you to the doctor once the pictures are through,” mom said. I was crushed. I was in agony. My mom cared more about getting the team photos for her son’s team that was essentially 1-8 for the season (if memory serves me) than the state of my left knee.
Mom helped me over to the neighbor’s house in a makeshift 3-legged race stance for the shuttle to the photo session. I held back the tears as I was transported to the local recreation center where many of our practices and games were held that season. When we arrived, I exited the vehicle and headed to the photo location.
Individual photos were taken first, followed by the team photo.
I did my best to mask the fact that I had been sobbing moments earlier, and that my knee was still throbbing intensely.
We returned home shortly thereafter. Mom made good on her commitment to take me to the doctor. And still in mass amounts of pain 2 hours after the initial injury, I received my first official set of trauma-induced x-rays. I sat there in my best 8-year-old acting strong position as the x-rays were captured and then developed. And as I sat there I strangely wished my knee to be broken in 17 places. I wanted my mother to remember this day for the rest of her life. I wanted her to rue the day she valued the pre-paid photographs of a soccer team that could not kick their way out of a wet paper sack over the well being of her first-born son’s left extremity.
Well, short story long…my knee was not broken, or any other bone in my body. And although I was still aching from the assault upon the hydrant, I learned a valuable lesson in “tough love” that day. Though my mom was concerned for my welfare, and still is to this day, that day I realized that sometimes it is necessary to smile for the camera despite what may be seething beneath the surface. Even though sometimes it may sting to go through the process, obligation is an integral part of life. Now married with children of my own, I know this all too well.
Thanks, Mom.
Oh yeah, I still suck at soccer.
