—have you ever broken a bone?
Picture this: a scrappy backyard baseball diamond, cobbled together by three siblings with big dreams and zero budget. First base? A sickly, half-dead plant wheezing in a faded terracotta pot, so heavy we nearly busted a gut dragging it into place. Bits of clay flaked off, sticking to my fingers like orange dandruff—I wiped ‘em on my shorts, leaving a smudge of shame. Second base was the swing set, an immovable beast that dictated our lopsided field. Third base? Just a vague “right about here,” because, hell, if you made it to third, you were basically Babe Ruth. Home plate was where I stood, rocking white tube socks with yellow-and-gold stripes yanked up to my knobby knees, ready to crush it.
The pitch came underhand, a wiffle ball floating like a drunk butterfly. Crack! I smoked it high toward left field, a glorious arc. Now, our three-man baseball had weird rules—think Calvinball with extra yelling. One kid played permanent outfield, switching teams like a double agent, while the other two were the “teams,” covering everything else. Batter up, pitcher, outfield, trash talker—you name it. It was chaos, but we were kids, so screw it, we made it work.
I bolted, legs pumping, aiming to stretch this hit into glory. First base was a breeze—my sister was on it, but my brother’s throw was wobbly, and I was Usain Bolt in tube socks. I waved myself on, yanked my cap down to keep it from flying off at my lightning speed (self-awarded), and charged for second. But my brother, the little schemer, was already there, grinning like a jackal. “Crap!” I was in a pickle. I slammed the brakes, sneakers skidding, and glanced back at first. My sister—bless her—had fumbled the ball, turning it into a football blooper. No error yet, just pure sibling incompetence.
I spun back toward second, thinking I had a shot. My brother’s face screamed, “You’re toast, dipshit!” but I caught his bluff—he didn’t have the ball. Ha! Time to make him eat dirt. My legs were churning faster than I realized, because when I turned to lock eyes with second base, I ran smack into the swing set’s A-frame crossbar. WHAM! Right across the bridge of my nose. Cue the cartoon stars, tweety birds circling my head, and me sprawled out like Wile E. Coyote after a bad day.
I hit the dirt, motionless, while my brother pranced around screaming, “You’re out! OUT!” Like I’d been tagged, not concussed. For a hot second, I might’ve actually been out—lights off, nobody home. But like any backyard legend, I staggered up, clutching my face, and demanded a review. Problem is, the ump was my sister, who also threw the ball and switched teams. Conflict of interest much? “Nah, Wil, you’re out!” she cackled, no sympathy.
Then I touched my nose. “Holy shit, that hurts!” Blood gushed down my face like a horror flick. My siblings shrugged—nosebleeds were our cardio back then. But this wasn’t your average snot-faucet drip. My nose looked wacky (my sister’s exact word, the poet). It was swelling faster than a cheap hot dog in the microwave. Our not-so-thrilled parents rushed me to the ER, muttering about our “damn fool games.” Diagnosis? Broken nose, baby.
The silver lining? Game called on account of my face. No loss on my record. Take that, suckers.
BB Grey--musings 
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