You’re supposed to get tackled by your brother the linebacker. That’s what you expect when you take the handoff and run around Daddy’s block, making a dash for the end zone. But you’re not supposed to be whipped around by your jersey and smash your head into a corner. Turns out they put metal on the corner of those walls in case the bedroom becomes Ravens Stadium.
First there’s the blood. Then there’s the wailing, mostly about the blood. At this point we switch to zone and one goes for the trip to the ER while the other holds down the fort and begins a load of laundry, finishes making dinner, gives baths, and hopes for the best.
They use topical anesthetic, but if it’s not quite in the right spot when they do the sewing up part, everyone in that wing of the hospital certainly hears about it. Five needles later he’s numb enough to continue, and he takes the 5 stitches like a champ.
Next time a helmet?
I asked to take a photo of the wristband, and this fist is what I got. Still trying to decide what it says. Maybe it’s something like, “Give me your best shot. I’ve seen it all. Even played the part of the football.”