Nobody wanna see that, goddamn 4th grader. Sit yo ass down.

In grade school I had the sweetest jacket a kid could ever want. It was a Kansas City Chiefs Starter jacket. If you know what that is, you know why I was the coolest. I wore that thing from the moment the weather pretended it was going to get cold until all hopes of a sudden cold spell were over. I would wear that jacket til my death, or next growth spurt.

My mom knew this, or she sensed as much. This is why the phone call made her think I was dead.

That and the nurse at my grade school was old enough to have given birth to Shadrach, Mesach, and Abednago. Her voice had the steadiness of an alcoholics hand while in detox. Her voice was as feeble as any cliche I could write and as faint as a smile on a Botox patient. Basically, it sounded like she was crying everytime she spoke.

So when she called my mother to tell her what had happened on the playground she probably should have used that old age to her benefit. Some sort of wisdom from living for so long should have kept her from starting the conversation with, "Mrs. Whale Cancer's Mom? This is Ms. West at the (insert grade school)'s health room. Chris was on the playground playing football and he hit his head." 

Now when a lady who sound like she has been or is about to cry uses those words, moms tend to break out their jump to conclusions mat. Even when the next words were "He is completely fine, we just gave him some ice" I doubt my mom's heart started beating for another 3-4 seconds. Which would have led to a large amount of oxygen deprivation. Which ... frankly ... explains a lot now.

Anyway, I had been two-hand touched playing football. Seeing how I make Manute Bol look like Rosie O'Donnell I happened to be launched off balance. That my coordination was that of a drunken baby giraffe also could have affected the situation. Needless to say, my head decided it would test for defects in my skull by hitting the ground. An ice pack later I was ready to learn. Ms. West should have led with "Chris is fine, but he bumped his head." Even in hysterical tears, no one freaks out.

I know one thing is for sure. When I grow into a proud 94 year-old woman who volunteers in the health room (closet) at a local gradeschool, I won't make the same mistake.