On the afternoon of my 21st birthday, a few of my friends went out onto the beach in Ventnor to play a casual game of wiffleball before heading into Atlantic City. No big deal.
We were cycling through the positions when it finally became my turn to pitch. By then we’d been playing for a while, and the game was just about over. The very first pitch I threw – underhand, mind you – was ripped back at me from 15 feet away and hit me square on the vein above my ankle.
I fell down, grasping my leg. My friends were laughing at my seemingly gross exaggeration. I laughed too, until I took my hand off and saw a giant bruise forming. Somehow, the wiffleball managed to hit in just the right spot to burst the blood vessel and produce a bump about the size of an old Nokia cell phone.
Panicking, I stood up and started walking back to the house. However, every step increased the pressure on my ankle, presumably squirting out more blood from my vein. I hobbled back into the house and tried my best to fix the peculiar issue before it was time to go to Atlantic City. Despite two hours of ice and elevation, I was resigned to limping around the casino with a wiffleball injury for the rest of the night, taking the phrase “injury prone” to the next level.
#mybad
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