Thursday, December 13, 2012

Blind Rage and the Number 12

If you are living under a rock somewhere, you might not have realized that yesterday's date was 12/12/12. I was hoping that something significant would happen in our household for me to write about, but nothing ever did. So I'll write about something else.

Being inundated with the number "12" all day made me think about my own life, and especially me at the age of 12. For some reason I remember being 12 much more than I do any of my other formative years, and yesterday I kept thinking that writing about it would make a good story.

I could write about the summer I turned 12, which would have been right around 1986. That summer was memorable for a couple reasons. First of all, that was the first year my Little League baseball team made it to the playoffs in all the years I had been playing baseball, or tee-ball, for that matter. We weren't a great team, but we were good enough to win our division, so we automatically qualified to make the post-season. I don't have the faintest recollection of how we did in the playoffs, but I know we didn't win the championship, so it must not have been too good.

That summer was also significant for me because it was the last year I played organized baseball, since I didn't make the cut to be on the traveling team the following year, even though I had been one of the best pitchers in the league the year before. Bitter much?

Another thing happened that summer that I would just as soon forget about, but I guess it's a part of who I am, so instead of forgetting about it, I'll write about it here so now everyone will know. I think it would be fair to say that I am usually pretty mild-mannered, if not teetering on the edge of comatose, but apparently even I have a boiling point, and that point reared it's ugly head one day in the summer of '86.

I'm not even sure of all the details of this story, and I don't know exactly what my older sister and I were arguing about, but I do remember that I was in our backyard, which could only be reached through a door in the back of the garage. For some unknown reason in the middle of our arguing, my sister thought it would be fun to lock that door so I couldn't get in, and for some other unknown reason, I felt it was imperative that I did get in. I really don't remember what happened next, because of the blind rage that completely took over, but for some reason I ran at the door with all my force, and put both my hands right through the glass window, shattering it completely, and cutting myself on pretty much every finger, in both my palms, and very close to the artery in my left wrist.

Needless to say, my blind rage quickly subsided. I don't know if it was the sight of my own blood dripping all over the garage floor or the sound of my sister screaming hysterically that made the rage leave. Whatever it was, it was very effective at scaring the rage so badly that it has never come back. So, that's a good thing.

Thankfully I was OK. The carnage could have been much worse than it was. And, actually, if my memory serves, I played a baseball game the next night with bandages everywhere. I guess getting a little dirt in an open gash never hurt anyone...

There were some other memorable things that happened when I was 12, but after writing about that last incident, I am tired of going through old memories. From now on, I'm only writing about the present. I'll take chaotic kids over blind rage any day!

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