The old ball game

Howdy, my little Thursdayers. I hope this morning finds you well. This morning is good at finding people, so there's really no use in hiding. It's like the scary eye thing in Lord of the Rings, except not at all.

Last week, I wrote about nicknames that Greg and I came up with for people we met at college. Typically, the names were superficial and didn't require much thought at all. I forgot to mention one more of those somehow, so I'll fill you in now.

By a show of hands, how many of you remember me writing about a young lady named Zoe who believed my homey Rockabye and I were brothers despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary? Hmmm, not many, not many, you guys are in trouble out there. (Not really, that's just a line from Bruce Springsteen's version of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" and it came out after the "not many" against my will.) In any case, Zoe had a friend who was often right next to her. I think her name may have actually been Megan, but I could be totally making that up.

One day, the friend jokingly said something about kicking someone "in the nards." I'm not terribly familiar with that terminology. In fact, the only time I'd really heard "nards" was in the movie "Monster Squad" from my childhood. One character kicks a werewolf character in the crotch and then says amazedly, "Wolfman's got nards," if memory serves, but that's about it. Hey look at that: the miracle of the internets:

Back to the story. Greg and I argued with this young lady that it should be "nads" if anything, because (as I so delicately put it), "I'm pretty sure I don't have gonards." Despite our expertise, she never agreed to see it our way. We'd pass each other on campus, and she'd say, "Nards" as we'd simultaneously say, "Nads." What can I say, it was a place where the country's future leaders honed their critical thinking skills. Well, it wasn't long before Greg and I just referred to her as Nards. It didn't even sound weird after a little while: "Susan, Danielle, Zoe, and Nards were on the shuttle with me this morning," for example. Her parents would've been so proud.

Why do I bring this up? Because in an effort to keep writing blog posts for a while longer, I need to occasionally resort to bathroom humor. Hopefully you prefer that to nothing at all. My dad sent me an email with some suggestions of things I could write about, and one of them was, "The time you got hit in the balls in elementary school." It was actually high school, Dad, but I'll gladly tell that story to keep hope alive. I even found a suitable intro; aren't you proud of your boy?

Ah, high school. So much can be said about those awkward years that I'll just skip over that and get to the story. In 9th grade, I was one of the rare folks who enjoyed P.E. Dusty and I had the class together, so it was a time for me to have fun with a friend while playing sports, which was one of my favorite activities. I didn't like being sweaty for the next period, but hey, it's not like I was hanging with too many ladies back then anyway.

One day during the tail end of the year, I was playing softball with our group in P.E. It was slow pitch, and you pitched to your own team. I didn't like pitching because it was a little scary (to be honest), but I took over that day because someone was out. So I'm standing there, way closer than where the normal mound is, and some big dude steps up. Since it's my team, I want him to hit it, and I lob a nice fatty right in there.

According to Dusty, here's how it played it (in present tense for dramatic effect): The big dude takes a massive swing at the ball, and it starts heading right for me. Before it reaches me, I start screaming, seemingly anticipating the pain it's about to inflict...or I'm just scared and wimpy. Bam! Right in the nuts, as if it were a Pete-seeking missile. I collapse to my knees like Roger Federer winning a Grand Slam tourney, and my hands instinctively go to my manhood to try to hold the pain in somehow. A guy from the other team runs up and grabs the ball. "That's three outs; it's out if it hits your own team. Were up now, get off the field," he says, showing a little less compassion than I expect. For a brief second, I think I'm ok. I get up, take a couple of steps, and try laughing it off. Then it kicks in, and I collapse in a heap on the sideline. Obviously, this is hilarious to onlookers, so I can't really be mad at them. I manage to get over to a bench and mutter something about someone else needing to pitch.

Dusty admirably held his laughter in while he asked if I was ok, and I told him that I should probably go to the nurse's office to lie down. I stumbled to my feet, and a long string of gum stretched from my ass to the bench. In my haste to sit down, I apparently hadn't looked carefully enough at where I landed. Even I had to laugh at that insult to nether-region injury, and I slowly headed off toward the nurse's office.

When I got there, I explained what happened. The nurse looked almost frightened and asked, "Do you need...me to...um, check on..." "No, I just need to lie down for a few minutes," I said, saving her from having to select a euphemism. 45 minutes later, I got up and slowly went to my next class. I knew that there was no way to sugarcoat what happened, so I was pretty open with everyone. I got some laughs from my female friends and some heartfelt condolences from the guys.

There, Dad, there's your story. Big Dude hits Ball at Balls, film at 11. Anyone have any kind of similar story that they feel like sharing for some odd reason? Email me at ptklein@gmail.com, and maybe we can commiserate. See you back here tomorrow for another Follow Up Friday. Be careful out there, friends.