Memoir

January 24, 2018
By CBW54 BRONZE, Ann Arbor , Michigan
CBW54 BRONZE, Ann Arbor , Michigan
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

In fifth grade I started to play tackle football. I was on the blue team with all my friends and I was the center. During water breaks we would always talk and have fun with all of the varsity equipment that they left behind or left there for their next practice. My team would always have as much fun as kids would have at chuck e cheese's. We would win a few games and lose a few games but back then winning or losing didn’t mean much because it was just an introduction to tackle football and winning meant more later in my football years. One day at a water break we were messing with this football on a stick thing that the varsity running backs used to work on hand placement on the ball and how to receive a handoff from the quarterback. My coach would always tell us not to touch anything because we could hurt ourselves because some of the stuff could be dangerous. But sometimes you could just feel the rubber on the football like it was rubber on something else and when you received the handoff it was like running for a touchdown in a super bowl. That day it was a warm day and the grass was long enough you could feel it on your ankles as much as you felt it under your cleats. Like usual we would mess with the football and little did we know that the football was attached by a really old rusty nail. Knowing that our coach had warned us that it was dangerous. The nail was as old and rusty as an 80 year old grandpa holding a rusty penny. So I went for a handoff and before I let go my friend Jared pulled the piece of wood and the football came sliding off like a kid going down a waterslide. I was really dumb not listening to my coach because the nail came flying through my skin and it cut me halfway through. The nail didn’t go all the way through my skin so it didn’t bleed. It kind of looked like wet soggy bread it was really gross looking. During that moment I was screaming and crying because I just got cut by a nail. And everyone could hear me crying from a mile away. I remember my stepdad (Jason) calling my mom and telling her I got cut and I might need stitches. Before this I had already had stitches and I didn't like the feeling. Going through my mind all I could think about was this very creepy and scary looking doctor coming in the room with this foot long needle telling me I needed a shot to numb my arm. My team and me went to the trunk of one of the other coaches and we patched me up and I went to an urgent care. We went to the doctor's office and all I could smell was the smell of used and new latex gloves and lollipops. So I went to a room where a doctor would see me. Later the doctor came in and examined my arm to see what needed to happen. He left and my mom told me it was all going to be okay but me being a twelve year old knowing she was just telling me that the calm me down and it didn’t work because my heart was beating so fast it was like a really fast rap song beat. The doctor came back in and told me that I needed stitches and next to him was a cart with a needle the size of a ruler. He told me that this was going to numb my arm so I wouldn’t feel it while he was sewing my arm up. I was so stressed and nervous it was like I could hear the medicine push through my veins while he was pushing the shot down in my arms. Then he came back in a little while later with a needle and some stuff to stitch me up. While he was giving me my stitches I felt like a teddy bear that a mom of a child was sewing to fix the button that fell off because the kid was playing with it too hard. That was a crazy day because I learned that needles aren’t all that bad and sometimes when your parents tell you not to do something they are right sometimes. Even though all kids try to deny the fact that parents are right we have to give them credit because most of the time kids are dumb and they are always looking out for us and our best interest.


The author's comments:

This is a memoir about me in fifth grade getting stitches 


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