“That’s swollen, you should put some ice on it,” my wife told me Monday morning.
She was talking about the last joint on my right middle finger, right underneath the nail.
It WAS swollen and very red. How it got that way is a tale that demonstrates my strength, my bravery and my sense of adventure.
Not many men would attempt to fight off a grizzly bear, but most men aren’t me.
The mammoth killing machine had apparently escaped from a shady underground crime compound that either staged bear boxing matches or used the scary animals for protection.
Either way, he was especially mean, had a weird tat on his neck, smoked unfiltered cigarettes and was busy menacing a bus full of nuns and baby seals when I happened upon him. I’d like to think most folks would put themselves between his brute strength and razor-sharp claws and a vehicle full of the vulnerable victims unable to fight back.
Most wouldn’t though, because they aren’t me. I knew the first tactic would be to “make myself big.” Many times, if you spread out your arms and make loud noises, you appear to be larger and more of a threat than you actually are and animals will cower.
“GETONOUTHERE!!!” I hollered while waving my arms around.
My uncle used to yell that at stray dogs that came in his yard and it worked like a charm in sending them scurrying. It did not work on the bear.
He almost looked amused. He turned the bus loose and it sped away immediately, leaving he and I to do battle.
He charged me, but was surprised by my strength.
Sure, he was three feet taller than me and outweighed me by nearly 500 pounds, but I’m wiry and used my leverage to my advantage.
“LOW MAN WINS YOU BIG DUMB SACK OF HAIR!”
I said, putting my flag football offensive lineman knowledge to work.
Sure, I would’ve been called for holding if this was a football game (I had to control those claws), but I dug in, stayed low, and got him off balance. I was showing him who was boss right up until that bear kicked me right square, um, below the equator.
He’s three of me big and still had to fight dirty.
He rushed me, going in for the kill (quite literally) but luckily my varied martial arts training served me well, as I dropped to the ground, swept the leg (maybe my martial arts training is actually just watching The Karate Kid) and sent him sprawling.
Unfortunately, his full weight did come down on the tip of my finger, but one well-placed chop and a rear naked choke later, he was ready to promise me he’d never eat nuns or baby seals or menace buses again.
Come to think of it, the injury actually could have come from assisting in helping rescue victims of a high-rise fire.
I don’t remember which high rise building it was, since there are so many in the Chester and Union communities, but I know the fire trucks with their ladders and nets were tied up in traffic and I again cast aside any concern for my personal safety and stood ready to catch anyone jumping from the high floors with my bare hands.
Sure, I knew one false move meant the end for someone, but my dexterity, raw power and steel nerves made me the only logical choice for the job. Kids, grown adults, cats…someone pushed a giant safe full of rocks off the roof and I caught it.
That thing probably hit my finger weird, leaving me with this wound.
Wait…or was it when I was called down to spring training to lead the Braves in batting instruction.
Whoever they had throwing to me came up and in and I think hit me square on the finger with a fastball. I mean, even off my finger, I hit into the gap for a clean double, but still, that does leave behind a mark.
When you spend your days slaying actual dragons and stopping trees from falling on a refuge house for koala bears and bunny rabbits, it’s hard to remember exactly how this injury occurred.
There was also the part about me dozing off with my hand under my head with my middle finger bent.
Literally hurting myself while sleeping. I don’t remember, but it was definitely one of those things that hurt my finger.
