Pain

Physical and mental pain are our co-habitants on our journey through life.

Deal with it.

Nice.

Lots of sympathy and empathy.

I have a very high threshold for pain and I know that some of it was gained at a very early age because I was raised (by my brother) that pain was for pussies and he prescribed the remedy of the day for ANY injury suffered on the football field: “shut up and rub some dirt on it.”

Didn’t matter that you might be suffering a life-altering injury and that you might walk with a limp or the rest of your life.

At least you weren’t a pussy.

My brother was playing high school football (where he was a star middle linebacker) and I was playing Pop Warner football where I HAD to star as a guard AND middle linebacker. Every day after football practice, mom would pick me up from practice and then go out to my brother’s high school before driving home.

I was exhausted, as I had been raised to give 100% even in practice. I was tired, sore, and ready to hit a hot shower.

But I wasn’t done.

Ed made me line up against him in the back yard with our full pads and helmets on. The rules for our drills were simple: make it into the house for dinner alive.

We played a two-man Oklahoma drill where we would place our helmets about 5 feet apart. Ed gave me the football and I had to make it past him for the imaginary touchdown. We did this drill hundreds of times and no matter how hard I lowered my head and hit him with everything I had, my big bro never let me sniff success.

But when I let out all that frustration I felt on my own league, I was Brian Bosworth at age seven.

Lights out.

I’m in my junior year of high school in South Carolina. Our football team went 0-10 and we were never in danger of even tying, more less winning a game.

I made the team as an outside linebacker and we were playing in our homecoming game. I’d like to say we performed a miraculous upset in front of the crowd, but we got our asses kicked (again) 45-0.

The pain part came in the form of a dislocated left shoulder I suffered in practice.

I couldn’t tell mom or dad; definitely couldn’t tell my brother.

Pussy.

So what did I do?

Back off contact and play it soft so as not to further damage my shoulder?

Really?

I threw myself violently into the thick of the fray and after every play, I would have the guys encircle me while one of my mates held me square and another guy popped my shoulder back in place.

Hurt like a bitch, but nobody knew.

Real smart decision.

I can’t lift anything over my head with my left arm and it has been like that since I was sixteen years old.

Stay well.