Thursday, December 27, 2007

When Tragedy Strikes

There comes a time in a man's life he's taken to his limits. A time where his will and tolerance is tested. These times are tough on anyone who happens to fall upon them. You would do anything for it to be over so you can return to your normal daily routine. However, minutes seem like hours, hours seem like days. You start for look for things to keep your mind off what is troubling you, but everywhere you look seems to contain haunting reminders of what you're missing. But you have to fight through it because you know the light at the end of the tunnel is within reach. When it is all said and done you know you're a better man for getting by.

Such a time fell upon me the summer after my freshman year of college. I was back home in South Dakota working, drinking, and playing golf. June seemed to fly by, and July was no different (except for a very drunken 4th). August rolled around and was going swimmingly until the weekend of the 23rd. It started out as a seemingly harmless weekend. I followed a night of drinking with the early morning company softball game. It was the top of the 2nd in the first game and I had added three more beers to my already drunken state. Then it happened. A low throw that, instead of making an athletic move and bending my knees, I fell at.

I remember a sharp pain followed by the second basemen yelling at me to get up and get the ball and all I could do was look at her yelling at me and thinking "Jesus Mom, I think I broke my hand". After speaking with several wannabe drunken "doctors" I drove myself to the emergency room for the first time in my life. The doctors confirmed the break and put me in something that looked like something straight from a MacGyver episode and sent me on my way.

The break would require major surgery to repair the bone and other collateral damage. It wasn't until the next day that I realized the true extent of my injury. I had just broke any semblance of a sex life that I had. I was 20 year old ball sexual frustration as it was and now I was without a way to relieve the "pressure". Sure I still had my right hand but it wasn't the same. In fact, it was almost awkward like I was cheating on my left hand. I had perfected my craft as a lefty and was not about to change. The only thing that seemed to help were the pain killers, which were great since it was the first time I was on something stronger than aspirin.

The first two months of following semester were hell. I would sit out on my porch and watch the girls run by in their tiny shorts and sports bras. Instead of picturing them naked like every other guy I had to think about baseball and play six degrees to Kevin Bacon with myself instead of going inside with fresh images and "playing with myself". Showers were uneventful and depressing. I tried to get creative and find new ways to get rid of the growing sexual build-up, but nothing could replace lefty and our man to hand relationship.

I tried to pick up girls during these troubling times but nobody wanted to have sex with a cripple. Especially one who guaranteed to last no longer than 90 seconds in the sack. I had hit rock bottom sexually. There was absolutely nothing I could do to please myself. Until I stumbled upon my savior.

One of my roommates had a big stress ball. After failed attempts to cut a hole in it with one hand I decided to use it to rehabilitate my surgically repaired hand. I would squeeze the shit out of that thing every chance I had, and before I knew it my hand was recovered. I had made it and all I had to do now was wait for my roommate to leave and it was off to euphoria.

You know what? I feel like a better man.

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