Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details.There once was a time when pain didn’t hurt by J. G. Fabiano How did something that small hurt so much? I held onto the elbow of my right arm after I accidentally bumped it on the corner of a lab table. It felt like I had been hit by a sledge hammer and when tears came to my eyes a student asked me what had happened. I explained that I hit my arm on the table and he looked at me with an expression that had little compassion in it and whispered. "What a wimp." As he walked away I reminded myself that I had not always been a wimp and there was once a time when pain didn’t hurt. The first time I remember feeling pain was when I was a young boy of about eight. I was standing in my favorite place that was the batter’s box of my little league baseball field. The pitcher had just struck out the sides for the second time and it was now my turn to see if I could get my bat to touch the ball. The pitcher was huge. He was supposed to be only nine because that was the oldest any player could be in the league I was in. Looking up at him as he was about to throw the ball he looked at least fifteen. He threw his first pitch and to my surprise and the shock of the pitcher I actually hit it hard. Of course it was foul but just the concept that I was able to hit his pitching made all involved in the game applaud, with the exception of the pitcher of course. His next pitch was outside and low and I let it go because I never even saw it. His third pitch was outside but closer to the plate. The umpire behind me yelled. "Striiike two." With the pitch count going the way of the pitcher everyone who was watching started to expect another strike out but because I didn’t want this to happen and because I didn’t know any better I stepped closer to the plate. The next pitch was also outside but because the umpire called this pitch a strike before I threw the bat at the ball and fouled it over the backstop. I thought to myself there would be no way this pitcher was going to strike me out. I then took another step closer to the plate. I knew the pitcher did not like this because he intensely stared at me with his eyes almost hidden by the peak of his cap. I stared back at him as intensely as I could, impatiently waiting for him to throw the ball once again on the outside corner. Being where I was, I knew I could pop it over the first baseman’s head thus messing up his quest for another no-hitter. I should have known there was a problem because I never saw the pitcher look at his catcher. All he did was stare at me from the slit made between the peak of his cap and the top of his nose. His wind-up was slow and intense and when he released the ball I knew he threw the ball as hard as he could. He also did not throw it on the outside corner. This time he aimed for my head and was very successful in finding it. All I remember was looking up at five or six people staring down at me, hoping I was still alive. My batter’s helmet was split in half, protecting my skull from doing the same. I looked up at the worried faces and simply told them I didn’t feel a thing and that I was OK to go to first base. The umpire, who was still wearing his mask, made my father take me to the hospital where I told the nurse I was fine and I didn’t feel a thing. By the way, we lost the game that day but the pitcher’s hope for a perfect game went the way of my broken batter’s helmet. ‘Call me a wimp’, I thought as the student left the room after I started to feel pain in my arm. I wanted to call him back and relay the story to him but I thought there would come a time when I could tell him how when I was young I was close to invincible. I remember another time when I was helping my father move some boxes from our garage to our cellar. I must have been in my mid-teenage years because I remember being a lot taller and much heavier and at that age most young men want to keep up with their fathers. The basic problem with this concept for me was that my father was extremely strong, so when we started to move the boxes he took four at a time. Not wanting to be bettered by the man I was supposed to be catching up to on strength I also took four boxes. At the time I wondered if his boxes were as heavy as mine. I lifted them nonetheless and carried them to the staircase that let to our cellar. Breathing heavy and balancing the boxes on my forearms I descended the stairs in hope that I would be able to put my load down as soon as I left the stairs. In this point I was correct because after the third step I lost my balance and fell down the stairs with the boxes and their contents were thrown in ever direction. I remember hitting just about every step with every part of my body. Later on my father told me I made perfect somersaults in my travels down the stairs. My mother ran hysterically after me wondering if I killed myself and already blaming my father for the death of her son but, remember I was no wimp. I just stretched myself out and told my parents I was fine and that a simple set of steps was not enough to do me in. I remember feeling a bit stiff and bruised that night but after a couple of days it was like nothing at all had happened. I couldn’t believe that fragile little student dared to call me a wimp. He should have been there to see me when I was his age and swept away fate by being tough as nails even though I was stupid as rust. I was at a graduation party for one of my friends. It was at his house and he just graduated from high school with me being one year behind him. He had a pool in his backyard with a sliding glass door between the patio and the inside of his house. We had a great time that day diving in and out of the pool with music blasting and food and drink flowing. Later on, in the evening right after the sun set, many of our friends and family went inside the house because the weather of early June in New England still resembles the weather of March in most other states of our nation. Since I was still outside I thought I would liven up the party by making a grand entrance into the house. In my mind’s eye I could see myself sliding across the floor into the midst of my friends screaming "Ta dahhhh!" It seemed like a good plan to me. So I patted my feet in puddle of water on the patio. Ran around a small circle on the patio in order to get some momentum to slide through the room and matched my leap with the first part of my ‘Ta dahhh!’ I only remember getting out the ‘ta’ because I had forgotten one important detail. I never opened the sliding door between the house and the patio! I again woke up with many faces looking down at me but, this time they were in shock because I did not just knock myself out on the door; I had smashed my way through it. 83 stitches later and an overnight in the hospital I had ended the graduation party like no other graduation party should have ended but, I wasn’t a wimp and never complained once. It took me a little over a week to get back to school but when I did I had hero status. I didn’t have a cut on my face but my legs looked they went through a pool full of piranhas. Again, I wanted to call the student who called me a wimp back so I could tell him how tough I was at his age but then I noticed he had returned to the hall that was near my door. I ran toward the door so I could prove to him once and for all how tough I was and still am when I accidentally smashed my knee on the same lab table I had earlier bumped my elbow. ‘Eeeeeek’, I screamed and held my knee in both my hands in fear that it was going to fall off my leg. Looking through the doorway was the same student who earlier called me a wimp. This time I just watched as he shook his head back and forth. He then shrugged his shoulders and walked away. I wanted to call him back to tell him my stories but there was still four other lab tables in front of me. The End.
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