Just Another Story, Again

Aaaahhhhh!!” I screamed. School was over. My backyard was green and inviting, and the afternoon sun had still more warmth and radiance to offer. Still, nothing– no friend, thoughts of relaxation, or beauty– could have comforted me from the shock of pain coursing through what I once thought to be my left arm. “Dad! I think it’s broken!”

It was, but dad thought otherwise, at least at first. It began after school on a brilliant spring afternoon. I was fifteen, and my friend was my adversary. We set foot in that arena, that soccer field that was my back yard, surrounded by what seemed like thousands of roses on three sides, following our every move and applauding our every triumph. The glistening, blue sky seemed almost to call us into afternoon play, a call which none of the cotton ball clouds dotting the sky could ever have stopped us from hearing. Chris, my best friend at the time, suggested we kick the ball back and forth, and I was ready. I was soon to find out, however, that this would be no ordinary competition.

Things became serious. Tiring from the repeated back-and-forth play, Chris struck the ball too lightly across the pitch, where it landed equal distance between me and my foe. In the now-dimming light, we stared at one another, as though such stares alone could conquer. Then, suddenly, a jolt of energy surged through our fifteen-year old frames and sent us ripping through a windless day to meet the ball first.

I had to win. I could not let my challenger reach first what was rightfully mine. Equally skilled, each reached the ball at the same time; and equally brave, each kicked with all his might. Our moment slowed. Both missing the ball, we careened up toward a smiling sun, and then down toward a heartless earth. I reached it first, leaving what was likely a resounding thud of a sound. I could not see my friend, but I felt him. He landed on top of me, his full weight bearing down on my left arm. I screamed, and threw my friend feet away from me, rushing– with hot tears streaming down my face– toward my father, barbecuing hamburgers mere feet away.

“Let me see. I don’t think it’s broken, son.” The doctor, an older, kindly gentleman, felt otherwise. It was only a hairline fracture, but I would still need a cast. I chose blue.

Days later, I returned to school, parading my arm as though the cast I wore was a trophy, proving that I had conquered my opponent. To me, however, this opponent was not my best friend. Instead, my true adversary was the pain I had endured, a pain I had met and defeated. I strut about my school with an air of triumph. I was now a man. In fact, I had learned what was possibly one of the greatest lesson of my life on that brilliant afternoon. It was simply this: no one, no matter how great or small, is invincible. Though feeling forever strong at having endured something so painful, I truly discovered that day just how vulnerable we can sometimes be.