"Them that die will be the lucky ones!"

When I was a boy, I was as awkward and uncoordinated as you might expect. I really don't think I've gotten any better except that perhaps I now have a better understanding of my limitations. My athletic exploits often resulted in hurt feelings, and less often in getting hurt. There was a lot of gasping for breath during basketball games. I was struck by a thrown ball once in Little League, recovering quickly thanks to the canny direction of the coach to go get a drink of water. I recall aching ankles during grade school intramural flag football, when I was a nose tackle. Even then, I didn't really have the body for it. I guess it reflected the makeup of our team and the attitude of our coach about inclusiveness.

The worst incident took place on a school field trip to the roller skating rink. One laced up the old-fashioned roller skates, and just skated in circles over and over for hours while what it's hard to believe was popular music of the day played over the speakers. I don't recall finding it terribly stimulating. Maybe it was boredom which distracted my focus, for at one point that day, I pitched forward and hit the rink face-first. Conventional human behavior is for reflexes to instinctively take over and force the hands to shoot out and take the impact rather than the critical brain-containing skull. I have always been something of an outlier, and failed to acquiesce to reflexes.

Paying the piper were my two front teeth. With an ashen visage and trembling, damaged little body, I went and found my mother to tell the tale. Events transpired rapidly from there. I was whisked away to the dentist, while a remaining adult in charge of the expedition apparently set the remaining students to the ghoulish task of recovering my tooth fragments in hopes of restoring them to previous condition. It was a futile, time wasting endeavor, which young students are entirely accustomed to.

The dentist assessed the damage but declined to treat me that day. He claimed that the nerves needed time to heal before he could do anything. All I know is that I had busted-up teeth and exposed nerves for about a week. It was not pleasant, and was worst when I had to brush them. The nerve damage actually encompassed a number of muscles responsible for generating facial expressions. I was cursed with a crooked and lopsided smile for a long time. I have lately scrutinized my face, wondering if there are lingering traces.

The dentist did indeed repair the carnage after that interval, and his work was good enough to last until college. Subsequent healers proved to be less capable of such enduring cures. I derived some pleasure from bragging about the convincing nature of the largely false teeth, and gave no thought to them being less able or requiring of special attention. Today I am more aware. It's kind of like the psychological progression soldiers go through. First they think, "I won't be killed because I'm too good, handsome, nice, etc". Then they realize, "I can be killed, but can minimize the risk if I'm careful". Finally, they conclude "I will be killed, and the only thing that can stop it is if I'm not in combat".

Of course, what happened to me on that day was a fairly minor thing even by the standards of incident-prone children. It was just one of the many chapters of my youth which contributed to making me who I am.