Apparently My Baseball Skills Have Left Me

It seemed like a fairly routine groundball. The guy hit a solid shot straight at me. I was playing a fairly deep shortstop, but calmly put my mitt on the ground and waited for the ball to find its way to my glove. Instead, the ball ricocheted off the lip of the infield and made a beeline for my face.

After a momentary pause (did that really just happen?!?), I reached for my nose. As expected, I was gushing a familiar red liquid. At first, I tried to wipe away the blood using my hands. That technique was about as useful as Amy Winehouse's latest stint in rehab. I knew it wouldn't help but I had to do something. It turned out this was the perfect day for me to wear by highly absorbent, white Nike athletic shirt. I actually tried as hard as I could not to bleed on my favorite workout shirt, but was largely unsuccessful.

Despite my predicament, I kept my dignity. There were no whimpers, tears or profane verbiages. I maintained a smile, laughed a little, cracked a few jokes. A guy watching our ragtag game of softball from near the basketball courts alongside the field had this concerned yet intrigued look on his face. It looked as if he wanted to ask the obvious, “Are you OK, man?” but his eyes were too preoccupied with my bloodied face to say the words.

I drew even more stares from a pair of teenagers sitting on a park bench under an overhang. One of the guys saw me heading their way and (indiscreetly) alerted his friend that a hideously decorated face was approaching. Then there were the middle-aged Latinos whose jaws dropped as I continued my walk to the bathroom. (Isn't staring rude or something?) Another group of parents (this happened to be a rather busy park) did the double-take, glancing my way, then back to their conversation and quickly back to me. That 50-yard walk made me think I was going to see a crooked nose, black eye and a new hole in my head.

When I arrived in the men’s room, I found neither a mirror nor any paper towels. A little woozy and my vision starting to blur a bit, I didn’t even think to check the stall for toilet paper. Instead, I wandered into the women’s room next door, politely asked if anybody was inside (as if it mattered at that point) and pulled a few yards worth of towels from the dispenser.

My machismo quickly faded during the drive home (yes, I was smart enough to drive myself home). I suddenly didn't feel so great. A bit dizzy, I walked through our front door and explained to the family what happened. For all my grief, all I got out of my dad was an, "Ah, doesn't look so bad, you'll be fine." I'm used to my dad's expert medical analyses from years of alleged minor injuries (like my ruptured eardrum, torn ligament and fractured wrist -- just walk it off, everything will be fine). Eventually, I just stopped telling him about my injuries. I thought the symptoms of a mild concussion might spark some interest, but apparently I was wrong. My mom, on the other hand, has this tendency to overreact. She seemed genuinely worried about my black eye and blood-stained apparel, but I'm not about to head to the emergency room.

By the way, in case you haven't figured it out, I’m home for the next few weeks (as in the place where I grew up, aka the folks’ humble abode).

Before the game, I figured I would play for an hour or so, be back in time for dinner and then head to the track for an easy mile, stretching and drills. Now I’m writing to you with a wicked headache, a black eye and badly-bruised nose. The positive spin: My room isn't turning anymore and the bleeding has stopped.

Mild concussion aside, who’s ready for a track meet tomorrow? I know I can’t wait.

Until today, I’ve maintained a steady workout schedule. To be honest, my head is still throbbing so I’m cutting this entry short. There will be more to come on my training regimen after tomorrow's meet. I couldn’t skip out on this Frank Moment. Time to grab another bag of ice and up the Ibupofen dosage. Sure is great to be home.