Battered, Broken, Bruised: 3 Stories

In fifth-grade I was playing "keep-away" with two of my cousins, Joni and Sarah, at my Aunt Sissie’s house. I just remember Joni throwing the tennis ball over my head and running really hard backward to get it. I ran hard into a brick wall, the side of the garage. I fell to the ground in pain but quickly arose, not wanting my girl cousins to see that I was hurt. I placed my hand for a moment atop my head to rub the pain and quickly went pale as I realized that my hand was covered in blood. Joni and Sarah screamed and walked me in to my Aunt Sissie, and she quickly called my Aunt Judy and Mom to come over. I just remember two things at that point: the feeling of loss that my new Yankees baseball cap was ruined; and, my Aunt Judy slapping me in the face and telling me not to go to sleep. I saw Dr. Matt Hogan in the hospital that day for my minor concussion. No stitches were needed, and I eventually went home to rest.

I played my very first tackle football game in seventh-grade. I was so proud to finally be on the Atlanta Rabbits football team. We were playing the Liberty-Eylau Leopards. Like every other "skinny white boy," I was a wide receiver (there are almost no passes thrown in junior high) on offense and a rover, or strong safety, on defense. A rover stays behind the defensive line just in case a running back was to get through. In junior high, no running backs get through the line; they only run around it. However, I was in my first official football game ever, and something extraordinary was doomed to happen. A running back got through the line on my first defensive play. He was huge. I stood in the tentative and fearful position of a junior high rover, hoping to succeed by displaying a proper form tackle, or at least the attempt at one, for my coaches. At the last minute, I turned sideways a bit, probably in fear, and he plunged his facemask into my arm, just below the shoulder, snapping it in two. After being unable to get up and Greg Fouche eventually helping me over to the sidelines, Coach Golden yelled at me and told me to get my "sissy ass back on the field for the next play" if I wanted to ever play again. Rethinking the decision to have an intelligent dialogue with Coach Golden, I went over to Coach Williams, an excessively kind black man who was also my history teacher. Coach Williams, after feeling my arm, quickly turned and scanned the bleachers for Dr. Tim O'Kelley (Aaron's Dad), knowing that he would be there watching Aaron play. Dr. Tim was already on his way down. The game was in Texarkana, about thirty minutes from my hometown, Atlanta. Dr. Tim graciously followed me and my Mom to the hospital, where my arm was set and placed in a cast (wrist to shoulder).

The final story I will tell here is of a camping trip mishap in tenth-grade. Clay May was one of many of my friends that had gone to Rocky Point on Lake Wright Patman to camp for the night. Clay had convinced me to bring my Dad’s small canoe and a bike, and we decided to design our own triathlon. We canoed about three-fourths of a mile out to an island and back, without any rest, then road our bikes approximately four miles on hilly trails, and finally ran a couple of miles to finish it off. We were tired and had brought little to eat or drink, except chips and Coke. Later, we played a commando game, where we chased each other on bikes through the dark park. The goal was to return to the home base without being caught. Aaron Lofton was after me on his bike, and I was peddling hard on mine. I saw a short-cut to our camping spot through the woods, so I jumped off of my bike and ran hard. I had disappeared from Aaron’s sight, but my desparate run was cut short by the side of a concrete picnic table. My shins hit, and my whole body flipped over the table. The back of my head and my arms and back hit the concrete corners as I landed awkwardly on the other side. I fell off and lay on the ground, nearly unconscious, for over twenty minutes, trying to muster the breath to yell loud enough for someone to hear, but I couldn’t. I could see the campfire in the distance. At some point, they began looking for me, and one of them found me. They carried me back to the tent and laid me on a cot. I remember waking up the next morning, my whole body sore and in great pain, to the smell of breakfast. I slowly and intentionally forced myself to stand up just outside the tent, noticing that Larry May, one of my Sunday School teachers, had shown up to cook us all breakfast. He turned and said, "Good morning, Blake," and I collapsed unconscious. The next thing I remember is waking up in his mini-van with all of the guys over me telling me that we were on the way to the emergency room. At the ER, Dr. Tim was waiting. He told me I was extremely dehydrated and that I needed an IV. Almost crying in fear of a needle, I pleaded against it and told him to bring me a couple of gallons of water to drink instead. He just teased with me with great intentionality, and, as he stood on one side of me, he had a nurse sneak up on me on the other side and give me the IV. I was very mad at him, and as he walked to the other side of me to listen to my complaint, he directed the nurse to go to the other side, where she gave me a second IV. I was livid... but well soon enough.