It was about 2:30 in the afternoon. It was a perfect day outside. This was most likely the reason why our class had gone out to play. I played football with some of my friends. I was 9 years old at the time.
Our quarterback hurled the ball to me in the end zone. The ball ricocheted off my hand hard and spiraled into the air. I caught again for a touchdown. When my team came over to congratulate me, My face was bright red and my entire right hand was on fire.
I dodged my teammates with a quick lefty-high-five and glanced at my finger. The base of my little finger looked normal, and it wasn't swollen, but that was where the regularities ended. The rest of my finger angled toward the ground and I couldn't move it. Thinking it would go away, I kept playing. On defense, I blocked a pass, and again surging pain ran down my finger.
I told my friends that I needed a rest and went to talk to a group of my other friends. A whistle blew and we went inside. I walked home after school. I started to do my math homework, but I couldn't write. I showed my finger to my sister and she was astounded.
When, my mom got home, I went to the hospital and had surgery. My doctor made me put a little cast on my finger. My little finger wasn't so little anymore. It had obviously swollen since I had last looked at it. It was bigger than any of my other fingers and I couldn't feel it.
It shrunk back to normal over the next two months, but you can still see where the football struck my finger.
Ewww. That sounds gross. Good memoir.
ReplyDeleteI liked the word "ricocheted". I think you should have put in more detail.
ReplyDeleteThat was really good,but you could have put a little more detail.
ReplyDeleteSo, even though you hurt your finger, you still chose football over a broken finger? I thought you gave enough detail though.
ReplyDelete