Mark had a soccer game last night. He played goalie. His previous experience as goalie consisted of half of one practice, in which he saw absolutely no action. So I was surprised that he was pretty good. He's got an incredible punt (not just mompride, either...verified by several independent sources, including the busline soccer coach who was there scouting next year's talent--which entirely consists of Mark, since he's the only sixth grader on the team).
In the last few minutes of the game, the other team scored a goal off Mark. I mean literally off Mark. Player nailed him in the crotch with the ball, which then bounced back and was kicked in for a goal (Mark was understandably distracted at that moment).
Your son's first testicular sports injury is a little disconcerting. First there's the knowledge that your child just got hurt. Then there's the knowledge of WHERE your child just got hurt. And that there is no way in hell he's gonna let you help him with this injury. Nor do you particularly WANT to help him with this injury. Then there's the bizarre flashing thought of "my grandchildren!" which is particularly disturbing since he's ELEVEN. And the equally disturbing thought that *everyone* at that game is currently thinking about your son's crotch. And even worse that YOU are thinking about your son's crotch.
He shook it off amazingly well (*there's* another image I'd rather not have), but he very forcefully (the first word that came to mind here was 'firmly', which just gave me shudders. Forcefully. Forcefully works well here.) requested that I get him a cup before his next game on Saturday.
Oh joy. I get to go buy my son a cup. That's a shopping trip to look forward to. Where I get to consider style and comfort and SIZE. And of course, there is no way I can schlepp this off on X, either, not between now and Saturday. GAH.
I'm gonna go avoid thinking about this for awhile. mk
1 comment:
I can see why you thought of this post. Ha!
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