Sucker-free countdown

When I try to figure out why I am the way I am, I remember head trauma. Not head-case kinda trauma, I mean literal head injury.

The first that sort of comes to mind is the wiffle ball bat incident. Remember the wiffle ball? It was a tough, plastic, hollow ball with holes perforated all over. You could hit it hard, but it wouldn’t go terribly far—perfect for backyard ball games. The wiffle bat was yellow, long, hard plastic, but skinnier than a traditional baseball bat. And I’m talking rigidly hard plastic. These were no Fisher-Price squishy plastic toys, this was old-school, from way back in the days where weapons masqueraded as toys (remember "jarts”?).

I must have been between 10 or 12 years old, and, somehow, my brother persuaded me that if I stood really still, he would hit a wiffle ball from off the top of my head. My memory of this whole incident is shaky, so I recall only what I groggily recorded. My brother pulled back hard, grimacing, not like an “I’m gonna give the ball a little tap” kinda look, more, “I’m knockin this thing to the smithereens.” And I got scared. Rightly so. This kid was aiming a hard plastic bat at my head. And as I also foggily recall, there may have been a yo-yo to the head incident in the recent past as well to spook me.

I guess I didn’t do the smart thing and duck. I guess I did something stupid, like jump up on my feet, because the next thing I knew I couldn’t see straight and I was stumbling around. I don’t even remember the pain I was hit so hard. I remember holding my head and temporary vision loss, and staggering drunkenly. I couldn’t speak. I remember my brother tenderly putting his arms near me and saying, “Are you all right?” and I couldn’t answer.

Then I remember the hallmark of any family injury: “Don’t tell Mom, OK? Please don’t tell mom!”

But I still don’t remember being able to speak. I remember holding my poor, precious head, my vision swimming back to normal, and standing in stunned silence. My little sister stopped doing whatever pretend gymnastics she was doing, and just stared at me. And then HE got mad at ME. “It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t moved! It was your fault!” And so on, displacing blame.

I don’t remember anything after that about what we told mom or if I was given an ice pack. I don’t remember if I cried or just sat in the grass, unable to speak. This entry would have more dramatic purpose if I could manufacture what came next, but this isn’t fiction, and all I remember is speechlessness.

What I do remember is that I always went in for these stunts. Any time the opportunity arose to knock something off my head or throw something hard really near my head, I went for it. I’m the sucker. I’d have done anything for those few precious moments of my brother’s undivided attention.