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Nov. 23rd, 2003

As the blood flowed down my right index finger, then my thumb, and then my middle finger, and kept trickling down my index finger so that I had to shake my hand between plays to fling the drops off the tip of my finger, I refused to wipe my hand or try to stop the bleeding.

Why? Many reasons, I suppose. I didn't really have anything clean to apply to the wound. I didn't want to wipe my hand on my shirt and ruin it. I wanted to see how long the blood would take to clot on its own. I wanted to see how long it would take for the others to notice the blood flowing down my hand (about 10-15 minutes). Most importantly, I wanted to feel tough, like a gridiron warrior, the old-time football players that bled on the field and played through injury. I'm stupid that way, but it's important to me.

Eventually I was offered a clean tissue, so between plays I blotted and applied pressure to the wound. It was still several more minutes before the bleeding stopped completely. That didn't stop me from catching a touchdown pass and throwing a touchdown past, all post-wound.

And how exactly did I injure myself? Roasting a Cornish game hen. About three weeks ago, I was roasting my first Cornish game hen. As I reached into the oven, my finger grazed a piece of searing hot metal near the top. The third-degree burn eventually scabbed over. Today I almost had an interception, but instead my hands just missed the ball and hit each other. My left hand slid over my right hand and must have torn the scab. Certainly not a very glamorous injury.


( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Nov. 29th, 2003 01:27 am (UTC)
Like war, most injuries lack glamor.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )

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