Jackassalope

Bottom of the Ninth

As it turns out, I’m both as cool as I thought and not as cool as I thought. This weekend I participated in a friendly home run derby amongst friends. I took it upon myself to urge everyone to sacrifice their bodies by diving for catches and leaving it all out on the field. When I realized that no one was going to dare to be amazing, I took the bull by the horns and laid out to make a catch. My superman impression paid off as I caught the ball in shallow center field. The impact, however, was more intense than expected.

My initial sliding form was good. I kept my left arm extended as I glided across the grass on my chest. Then my right hand hung up, rolling me over. At first I thought I was fine, but it wasn’t long until a throbbing pain started radiating through my right pinky. I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s easily the worst jammed finger I’ve ever experienced. My pinky is twice the size of its left hand counterpart. The skin is so tight that it’s grotesquely bulging at every knuckle.

Kudos me, for making a miraculous catch. Stupid me, for thinking I still have the skills to pull it off without injury.