Almost 2 weeks ago at my softball game I learned a very important lesson: don’t help others, because you will only end up hurting your wrist. The other team was up, and some fool was on first. The batter hit a single to left, and the guy who had been on first rounded second, then came back. By then my shortstop had taken the throw back in, and he saw the runner wasn’t quite back to the bag yet and he unloaded it to me. He has a very good arm, and I think he threw it as hard as he could. Only it was coming straight at the runner’s head, and the runner was between the ball and me. I yelled at him to get down, but he was choosing not to obey. I wished I was Satan so I could make him obey, as was Satan’s plan, but alas I am not, I don’t care what that freaking judge said. Anywho, I desperately tried to reach around they guy’s head to make the catch, and possibly save his life, but because his fat head was between me and the ball I completely lost sight of it and I wound up taking it directly in the wrist, no glove at all. It hit with a smack, and everyone could hear it had hit flesh and bone and they groaned in sympathy pain. But for some reason I didn’t feel it immediately. I asked him if he was OK, and he replied casually that it didn’t touch him. Using the process of elimination (which I usually do in my pants), I realized it had hit ME, and that was why my wrist was suddenly in a great deal of pain.
This was in the third inning, and we typically play seven. We were already short one player, so I couldn’t come out of the game or we would surely lose. Cousin Nathan taped me up and told me to just be a man, which seemed like a pretty tall order, but he looks a lot like Satan, so I felt compelled to do so. As the game went on, the pain worsened. Before my next at-bat, I realized I couldn’t swing, so I decided to try to take a walk. Fortunately, that plan worked the first time. Unfortunately, though, we wound up tied at the end of the seventh, and also at the end of the eighth, so we ended up playing 9 innings. I wound up having 5 plate appearances after I got hurt. Even though I couldn’t swing properly, I did manage the walk and 2 singles as I would wince and grunt in pain as I just flicked the bat at the ball and was able to dink a couple over the first-baseman’s head. Thank goodness I have a good bat, because what I was doing couldn’t even be called a swing. We wound up winning in the ninth inning, and I claimed all the glory for myself, as was Satan’s plan.
That night I didn’t get any sleep because my wrist was throbbing, and the next morning I went to the illegal alien doctor down the street (the doctor isn’t an illegal alien himself, but it’s the place for those without insurance, meaning illegal aliens and me). Some chick doctor (yeah, a female doctor, like I said I have no insurance) looked at it and said she didn’t think it was broken because of how much I was able to move it still (not much, but a little), but she said they don’t have an x-ray machine there and she recommended I go to the illegal alien doctor in Riverside because they have one. I recommended that I don’t, and after listening to both arguments carefully and weighing both sides, I wound up following my own advice.
I went to the CVS across the street and bought some Motrin and a brace for my wrist, and that was that. Well, I couldn’t work the next 2 days, and here we are 12 days later and it’s still not completely better, and we lost the following week because I was only about 50%, and I had to miss my Friday game entirely, but at least I didn’t do what some girl-doctor thought I should do, right? As I said, that was that.
