My favorite injury - TMS

Before I start, I believe that in heaven (or perhaps for me the other place) we can review aspects of our life and historical moments. How the pyramids were built -Who shot JFK - What really happened on Oceanic flight 815. As I tell this real life event, I want you to store this in the 90% of your brain you don't use, boys in your 95%, and Justin in your 98% that you don't use, and review this real-life event when you make it to your final destination.

It was a warm day in my 3rd grade life. Knowing California weather, the temperature was a high of 73 with a low of 72, with a cool westerly wind. The business at hand was dodge ball, and business for me was good. Being slight of frame with cat-like quickness and a rocket for an arm, it seemed I was molded by the gods for dodge ball. Fat kids, cool kids, girls, those slow of foot, or one-armed--wait the one-armed guy is in a different story that I am only a little embarrassed about, were no match. Whether it was hitting them or catching their feeble throws, the story was always the same, the other team crying on the sideline.

On this fateful afternoon, I had single-handed won the first few matches. In the third game, those with the last name N-Z were again far behind. We were down 2 people to 10, but I had the dodge ball strength of 20 men. The strategy was to lay in wait and catch the throws of the opposing team. (Quick dodge ball rules of the time - When you were in, you had to stay within the lines of the basketball court. When you were out, you went to the baseline of the opposing team. If any balls went out of bounds, you could retrieve the ball and throw it at the other team. If you hit someone, they were out. I guess this was an easy way to keep balls in play on the outdoor courts.) Balls were coming at me from both sides, but with no success. I would catch the ball and then lob it to one of my "out" teammates to continue backside pressure. The plan was to get the numbers more even before I started the throwing assault with my right arm, also known as The Widowmaker.

And then it happened ---dramatic pause--- a seemingly innocent throw was caught and lobbed to the far baseline. I was quickly back in the zone ready to send the next poser to the "out" line when Dave, name not changed, yelled out, "Travis look at your hand!" I was confident enough that I could quickly take my eyes off the dodge balls without consequence. I looked at my left hand and then my right and there it was. My thumb was sticking out of the middle of my palm with the top knuckle bent back. In my heightened warrior state, I was unaware of the damage to my hand. With sweat in my eyes, yes sweat and nothing else, I was able to deftly maneuver without getting hit to the sideline to show Ms. Albert my hand.

The game was stopped and I was led in awed silence to the Nurse's Office. Women and those with a weak constitution were fanned. Who was this Champion that barely recognized the carnage of his own body? He was just boy showing others how to be men.

Mother was quickly called, yes Mother, Madre, or Maa(Lao, pronounced like mad without the d and a hard stop to the aa sound.) The gruesome injury was relayed and the Nurturer to my life responded with, "Can't you just put him on the bus, school's almost out?" Oh, the humanity!! A frightened 8-year old boy in an unfamiliar Nurse's Office without candy or suckers for comfort, with tears, no, I mean sweat in his eyes, the child of this mother's womb left uncomforted. Mother finally relented and begrudgingly drove the blue-green EconoVan to California Elementary school to pick up her spare, I mean boy.

A short drive later we were at Dr. Grandzelas office (not sure if the spelling is right, but that's never been my strong suit. I was the 1st one eliminated at the 6th Grade spelling bee in Texas, I misspelled orchard or orchird or orchaord or orkard or however it is spelled. By the way, why didn't someone stop me from participating in this? As I recall, this was optional. Great way to stand-out and be cool. First attend the spelling bee, so the cool kids think you're a dork and then get eliminated in the 1st round, so the smart kids think you're an idiot.) Any way, after a short wait, we were led to an exam room. As all curious 8-year olds do, I started asking questions about what certain things were in the exam room- tongue depressor, long Q-tips, stethoscope, reflex hammer. And then the fateful question, "What is the white box for?"

These are the facts and the facts are indisputable. The remainder of the story has two variations. One from the perspective of an innocent 8-year old without guile, the other from a non-disclosed aged mother who wanted her injured child thrown on the public school bus to be herded home with the melting pot of California Elementary School. This is the part of the story that needs to be reviewed in the after life. We will all sit down in that theater room in the sky and partake of the goodness of truth.

The fateful question was asked, "What is the white box for?" Mother responded matter-of-factly, "That's where they're going to put your hand to melt it off." At this point, the sweat in my eyes turned to tears. What sort of sick place is this? Would my mother really let them melt my hand off? Mother quickly tried to recover, "No, no, that's where they sterilize the doctor's instruments." Too late, the damage was done.

When the doctor entered the room, I was ready to break free if he took me anywhere close to that white box. I don't care how big a man is, if you kick him in the knee he will go down. Luckily for him, he never took me near that box. He grabbed my thumb with one hand and pulled, nothing happened. Then the old doctor grabbed my thumb with two hands and with a grunted heave and a loud pop, my thumb was back in its correct position. He expertly contoured a padded splint to my thumb and wrapped it in an Ace bandage.

Despite all the trials of the day, I was able to keep my wits about me. With my splinted and wrapped thumb, I looked just like A.C. Green, the power forward for the Los Angeles Lakers. (Again, why didn't someone help me out? I little white kid thinking he was cool for looking like a barely starting power forward. By the way, A.C. Green is a 6'8" black man with a jheri curl.)

There you have it, my favorite injury.