I was in Charleston, South Carolina this past weekend and I had an excellent time. Southern living is nice for a weekend. My only real complaint is that I got eaten alive by insects down there. My legs and arms got attacked by swarms of mosquitos, the little bastards. My right elbow must've been especially delicious because it has a number of bites. In fact, my elbow has so many red bumps it's in line to be the next spokesperson for ProActiv. I'll have to check when Jessica Simpson's contract expires.

I guess I shouldn't waste people's time writing about my mosquito bites. Hell, they've almost already disappeared. Plus, as far as ailments go, mosquito bites are far from the worst thing that could happen to you. I've suffered some minor injuries over the years. If there's anything I've learned from those experiences(in conjuction with the collective works of Johnny Knoxville) it's that watching others get hurt is better than getting hurt yourself. In that spirit, why not share a few memorable injuries that I witnessed firsthand? Don't expect to read about any severed heads or anything here. I'm sure any paramedic can tell a thousand stories that feature more gruesome injuries than I've seen. I just want to share a few vivid memories that center around someone getting hurt. Bloodshed can serve as a tremendous memory tool. That's why we remember the Alamo and even chose to honor it by naming a car rental company after it.

I stepped on a nail in my youth and I once gashed my forehead open on the corner of a dresser. That was the most I ever saw myself bleed as a kid. But the first time I can recall being shocked by an amount of blood, it was a fellow Little Leaguer that was spurting the vital fluid. It was nearing dusk and they were trying to get the entire game in before the sun completley disappeared. I was on deck, with runners on first and second. I can't remember if it was a close game or not, but for dramatic effect, let's say it was a close game, we were attempting a comeback and we were facing our archrivals. (In reality, it was probably a blowout, little leaguers don't really have archrivals and most the kids on either team probably were more interested in postgame pizza.) In any regard, you only get a handful of game at-bats and I valued every single plate appearance. Here's what transpired: The kid batting in front of me lines a base hit into the right field gap and the runners begin to round the bases. The center fielder scoops up the ball and fires it in the direction of the second baseman, who has his glove ready to field the throw.
Unfortunately for the second baseman, visability was low. The baseball cracked him right in the kisser and his mouth and nose erupted. I could see the red mist from the on-deck cirlce. Everyone, including myself, rushed to his aid. The game was called. Blood was pouring out at an astonishing rate. The kid ended up being fine and the cut was relatively small. But I'll never forget the amount of blood I saw that day, the way it ruined the game and how it cost me an at-bat. An interesting side note: the second baseman that day later became one of my best friends and remains so to this day. Writing this reminds me that he owes me an at-bat. Maybe I'll make him take me to Stella's batting cages this weekend and buy me a token.

The next injury that stands out happened on our nation's birthday, the Fourth of July. Well, it was actually July 3rd, at the annual downtown fireworks celebration. I was a sophomore or junior in high school and my friends and I had packed a ton of beer and hopped on the train to get crazy amongst the masses. There was a large contigent from my high school that had secured an area for us to congregate and drink heavily. The party itself is a distant, foggy memory, but there is one instance that stands out in my mind. At some point, a scuffle took place between several of the football players from my school and another group of dudes. I wasn't involved in this fight, but a friend of mine had thrown a few punches and apparently landed them. He stumbled up to me at shortly after the altercation holding his right hand. "I think I broke my hand," he said to me. "How does it look?" I lied to him and told him it looked alright, probably just sprained. In actuality, the hand he was holding resembled a balloon animal. It was swollen up to triple its size. Needless to say, he was fitted for a cast the following day.

The final injury I'll mention here is one that I wasn't actually around to witness. But the scarred appendage left a permanant mark on my brain. One of my college roomates was working construction for the summer when he had a 2 ton dumpster dropped on his big toe. Amazingly, the toe wasn't severed. But it was comically flattened. He came back to school the next week, revealing a big toe that looked like a smashed banana. He had to walk with a cane for the next six months or so, but he became skilled at grabbing the remote with the cane so we didn't have to get off the couch. Advantage= us lazy guys.

None of these injuries did any permanent damage. But they showed me that the pain of others can become fond memories for me. Just as I'm sure that those Carolina mosquitos are reminiscing, at my expense, about how good my Illinois elbow tasted.