Broken Finger: One Year Later

Late in the morning, exactly one year ago last May I broke my first bone.

It's not exactly one of the "Definitive Moments in World History", nonetheless the memory of the stumble, panic, and the flight and all-day stay at the hospital lingers say nothing of the obvious scar on my finger. The tendons on one side of my index finger are gone, and it swells if left in a down position for too long.

I never went into the subject in depth though: My hands!

They are massive, and the idea they could still be massive yet minus one digit was a few millimetres away from a reality that day. More or less, they are a spectacle to everyone or anyone who notices them. Slightly smaller than NBA great Shaquille O'Neal's hands, they measure fourteen inches in circumference, give or take. According to a boxing fan friend of mine they are about the same size as the late heavyweight champion Sonny Liston. I didn't envision becoming the next Sonny, so I just smiled, nodded, ran to the nearest faucet I could find, and doused them in cold water to shrink my hand size.

My secret crush from the previous decade noticed my hands, too. Oh yes! It was years ago, and she put her hand in mine to measure. Outside, I was nonchalant about it, but inside I was gushing. 😍 *Phil calm down* 😒

Before the injury, I could do the infamous "Four Hoops" trick, where I bend my fingers back and form four circles with my hands. I did this to freak out small cousins. 😁

There are disadvantages, though. Basketball jokes, wacky spelling mistakes on the keyboard, mostly. However, it's playing instruments where I have the most trouble. Where the bass guitar is a dream come true, intricate guitars and keyboards are a musician's nightmare. Never did I hit so many dual notes on strings than with these demonstrative digits! In spite of this, in the ten years since first picking up my old acoustic guitar, and getting blisters within minutes of playing Wonderwall (badly) these hands helped get me back into music, and into writing.

To think, it all could have disappeared that rainy day sixty miles west of Toronto. Everything in our lives, and about us is a gift, and at any moment they can be taken. My hope is these hands, as large as they are, will be used for good and wholesome purposes. 😮 👐 😀

If Pitching Machines Were People...

Since the beginning of April, I made the weekly pilgrimage to the batting cages in town as part of my spring training routine for this season. I changed my diet in the off-season to a seafood only, vegetarian diet, which helped with staying in shape.

In the time spent at the cages, however, I noticed the pitching machines have different personalities as well as different speeds.

The Dirty Player

He doesn't have good stuff, so after you hit his best pitch he will pitch inside just to get you off the plate. He also hates left handed batters, like REALLY!

The Angry Dad

The pitches are slow, yes, but they drop suddenly for no good reason. It also doesn't help the balls are as small as ball bearings in a child's bicycle. Not good when you bring your date to the cages, and you're swinging and missing. It takes a few pitches to know figure out what the machine is doing, so don't lose heart.

The Jealous Ex

Everything is seventy-five mph or above. He hates people. He wants to embarrass you, plain and simple. Unless a member of the Toronto Blue Jays arrives, when the cages are empty, and hits every single fastball the machine can dispense, no one challenges him.

One unfortunate note, before I go: There's that moment, when you get that perfect pitch, and you foul it off your bat the wrong way. The ball bounces into the dirt, and hits you... there.

There are usually kids around the cages waiting, so you grab your head instead. It's only for a moment, however, as the pitching machine throws another ball your way. Now, you're swinging and standing like a penguin balancing on two ice floats!

As if you didn't look goofy enough! o_O

Phones, Crime, and Thoughts on a Bus

A friend of mine was a victim of theft on the bus. Someone stole their phone from right out of their hands; it was quick, and the thief immediately left the bus and disappeared into the night.

Of course, their friends and I were sympathetic and supportive, but imagine the kind of world where we blamed victims of theft for such crimes being inflicted on them? Imagine receiving questions like...

"Why were you looking at your phone on the bus?"

"People who but iPhones are just sling for trouble."

You have a phone? You're flirting with disaster!

"You don't have a phone? You're a prude!"

These are only some of the ridiculous statements I can write at this moment, but there are dozens more. Yet, we do this to victims of abuse and assault almost all the time, so if we would never make such ludicrous statements to victims of theft, how should we address victims of assault?