I think I was in the third grade when it happened. On the grassy area between the cafeteria and the main hall there were no trees to protect you from the glare of the South Carolina sun. Myself and at least two others were unperturbed by this susceptibility, however, when we gathered the ingredients for a game of baseball. I can’t remember now if we had an actual bat, gloves, and ball – but I am certain we had a projectile and something to hit it with.

The game was about as much as you could ask from a group of sweating kids who were sure they were being scouted for the Atlanta Braves. There was trash talking, there was base stealing, and there were several wild swings that came nowhere close to touching the ball.

When it was my turn to play catcher I squatted behind the ‘plate’ with a giddy excitement. A friend of mine was up to bat, and neither of us saw a problem with his standing so close to me that his knees could rest on my shoulders.

I put my ‘glove’ up (read: two cupped hands) after giving a signal for a pitch that neither me nor the pitcher understood. The pitcher reeled back and let it fly. The batter swung with every bit of power a third grader can produce. The result was a thundering blow that carried the ball to a spot on the ground no further than 8 feet from home ‘plate.’

In his excitement, the batter swung backward to release the bat. On this backswing he connected with another object. Unfortunately, this object was my head.

Once the little stars and birdies cleared from my vision, I was assisted to my feet by a teacher who had promptly ended our game.  I don’t really have any memory of this teacher, but I know that she next escorted me to the building that held the high school classrooms and office.

During our trek down this hallway the teacher rambled about safety and taking care of myself and some other things I wasn’t really interested in. The edges around my world must’ve still been a little fuzzy, because I was veering slowly to the right like a car with no driver. Every so often the teacher would pause her ranting and snatch me back to her side.

When we were about halfway to the office I had wandered all the way to the right side of the hall while the teacher’s attention was diverted. I believe at this point we were passing the chemistry lab, because I seem to remember a gas smell. Either way, I was just about to pass a big heavy door so close that my arm would’ve brushed it.

But, before I got to the door, another teacher burst through it like Usain Bolt at the Olympics. I was in the immediate path of this swinging nightmare and my reflexes were too slow to compensate. I think I must’ve been leaning head first because my forehead functioned as a doorstop. I ended up lying on my back in the hallway, spread eagle as if I were preparing to make a snow angel.

I don’t think the sprinter even noticed, and if they did I must not have been conscious of it. The next thing I remember is the gasping teacher dragging me to my feet and frantically apologizing.

We completed the trip to the Office hand in hand, and not surprisingly I don’t remember much after that. There was a nurse shining a light in my eyes and a talk about letting someone know if I got sleepy. Then I got sent back to class. Yes, that’s right, class. I think back then if you were squirting blood from your ears they would’ve stuck some gauze in and told you to get back to work. Kids get sent home these days if they drink out of their juice cups too fast.

So that was the day that I probably lost some of the common sense my wife is always talking about. I just think about what it must’ve been like for my mom when I came home and said “yeah school was good, I just got knocked out with a baseball bat and a swinging door. Can I have some doritos?”