In 2008, months removed from the Patriots almost perfect season, I split my lip and went to the emergency room for the first of three times that summer. The Emergency waiting room had pushed-together chairs, with cloth and foam backs, just like almost every public waiting room in the country. It smelled of windex and hand sanitizer, and I knew that they were covering bodily waste. My dad walked me up to the receptionist where the infamous bright white band it struck on wrist with my name, age, and sex. I am told to sit and wait until there’s an “opening.” People rushed in with red bandages covering their unconscious head’s, and calm nurses soothed the howling. I am filled with fear as I realize this is the last stop for some. But for me, stitches, medical glue and numbing shots held my second grade summer and face together. No matter where I went, or who I went with, I couldn’t avoid cuts, bruises, or welts.

I will always remember my first Water Country trip. Sorry, I will always remember missing my first Water Country trip. 10 o’clock, the second day of my 2nd grade summer, and I can’t sleep. I creep towards my parents bedroom. I open the door, complete darkness. Their bed is only a few feet away. However, these next few steps will haunt me physically and mentally for years. My dog’s bed is invisible in the dark, a trip wire. My foot wedges beneath it, and before I notice it, my mouth is heading directly for the corner of my parents hard oak bedside table. I begin to scream like a banshee as salty blood rushes from my nose and mouth. My parents wake and my mom, who can’t watch Air Bud without crying, screams as if I’m the boogie man. My dad, not wanting my mom to faint from my purple gums or bent teeth, later to be called hamburger mouth, calmy demands, “ Sheila, please go to the couch and stay there until his bleeding stops and I call you.”

My stern, grey bearded, courageous, uncertain father, trying to stay calm but with fear sneaking into his eyes, props me up on the bed while I howl and gush blood. For what feels like 5 hours, which is actually 5 minutes, I am propped up my parents plush, queen size mattress. After 5 minutes of torture, I completely forget what transpired. Finally, my dad makes the decision to take my unrecognizable mouth to the Emergency Room. My dad carries my limp, exhausted body out the house like a farmer carrying a wounded sheep. The car ride over included the occasional yelp as pain would surge through my gums. My dad asks, “How are you doing?”

My gurgling reply, “What do ya fink,” then silence. Then came the ER waiting room. An hour of pain waiting to be treated because my injury was not “serious.” I would hate to see the condition of the more pertinent patients. Nothing to do except suck up the shots of pain that come in 45 second intervals.

The next morning is the worst. I am set to go, but doctors orders keep me home. My mother and sister left for Water Country without me. I couldn’t believe it. My dad must stay behind with me and try his best to cheer me up, which is pretty tough because anytime I laugh, myF mouth felt like a shards of glass were being stuck into each in every little break in the gum line. The only thing I remember about the next day is drinking four thick chocolate milkshakes at Friendly’s because I could not eat, chew, or even gum anything crunchy, hard, salty, or spicy.
I survived and stayed healthy until mid-August.

The summer day couldn’t have been more cliche. Bright summer sun, 73 degrees, on the beach, and family friends with Moe’s sandwiches. Pepsi’s and San Pellegrino's in the red and white cooler. This day couldn’t get any better, but it could get a whole lot worse. My old family friend Jack and I were having a great day swimming, playing football, and stuffing our faces with junk food. We decided to wrap up the day with a nice relaxing game of paddle ball. The first point and the rest of the day is far from relaxing. After he whiffs three hits in, I declare, “My point!” and request the ball back to serve.

“No, it was out of bounds,” he argues.
“It hit the line.”
“Yeah, the line is out.”
“No it’s not!” I holler back, annoyed now.

“The line is in,” his sweet, short, curly haired, mother states calmly. Instead of arguing more, he reluctantly serves a ball and I return a pop-up right to him and he spikes it right back at me, like Kerri Walsh winning a point.
“No arc, redo,” I state. He is sick of arguing so just decides to serve. I stupidly walk over and command him, “Don’t serve!” I wouldn’t be telling you this story if he didn’t serve. The paddle slices through my upper lip like a hot knife through butter. My lip turns into a fountain, spitting out blood like a machine gun. A lifeguard guard sprints over as if he's on Baywatch and inquires, “Do you guys need an ambulance?”

“No!” I holler back at him. I have now soaked a perfectly good Power Rangers towel with my firetruck red blood. My only thought is how little I want to deal with the sterile, boring, painful E.R. “I'm not going to the damned E.R.” are the next words out of my mouth.

“John,” my mom soothed me, looking away, “We are gonna go to Doctor Bloomer’s and whatever he says we do.”

“Unless it's the ER!” I spit drops of blood. When the blood clears up and my mom sees the finger wide gash running from my lip to my nose, she goes back on her word and we head straight for hell itself. The same pain filled waiting room. This time the operation is miserable. They tell me they'll numb the wound before stitches, but to numb they shove a 5 inch needle into my 7 and half year old upper lip. As I scream in pain, my doctors mutters this will only hurt a bit. The 8 stitches finally go in, each with a sharp prick.

I live to fight another day, this time a wall on the biggest building Exeter is my enemy.

Man hunt at the P.E.A library. It was a routine, dinner at the dining hall with the local fac brats (the name for kids of P.E.A faculty) then right outside. We’d play until our parents threatened to ground us. However, one night I couldn’t stay the whole time. The game isn’t going too well for my team. The enemy has captured half our team in the first 5 minutes and a strong hold on the jail. No one has reached the base, either. Things were looking gloomy. With my sister captured on a suicide run to jail, I am now on of three left against eight, five of whom were surrounding the jail which was simply a tunnel leading into the library. It was very easy to protect, because there is only one tiny way in. Two opponents leave the jail, leaving me one on three. I notice the kid to the far right begin to zone out. He starts to talk to himself, and I see my opportunity. He reacts quicker than I expect but with a quick jump to left, I evade him. The other two close in fast. I know I’ll die but I have a shot to free many. My captured teammates are an arm lengths away. I dive, feel a hand on my back, then black. My eyes open, and I’m crumpled on the ground. Bryce Souci is standing over me, “You lose, you are in jail.”

“Great,” I moan. My head begins to itch, so like any sensible human being, even with a concussion, I scratch it. My hand comes back caked in blood. I put my favorite white shirt up to the area of pain and it comes back the color of an apple. I mutter to my sister, “Gotta go home.”

“Okay!” she chirps cheerily. “We need another player!” And runs off. She is used to this.

I head home and unsurprisingly, there is an argument, I lose, off we head to the E.R. The nurses greet me by my first name. Luckily this injury isn’t painful and all I need is medical glue. The library wall is uninjured.

When I look back on my various trips to the E.R, three things come to mind; I was a reckless, young fool (and still am sometimes), injuries shaped my childhood, and I don’t regret a thing. When we were all in second grade, we had no clue how the world works. Taxes, social security, checks, and interest were alien to us. We knew a few swears, but they were known as the f-word and the s-word and we had no clue what they meant. My body may have been scarred but my mind was still unblemished. When I was 8, a day wasn’t complete without a gash, welt, or bruise. Somedays, I’d come home with 5 pounds of dirt in my clothes and on my knees with various bruises from I don’t know where. I’d walk around with limp for the entire night, wake up the next morning, and go and do it all over again. Shin kicks, elbows to the head, sprained wrists, concussions, and jammed fingers were the routine for the young John.