A couple years ago, I wrote a blog titled, “Chuck Norris fact: I am no Chuck Norris.” It was about a biceps tear I incurred while training MMA. Well, this is a similar piece, but I may end up with a new nickname.
In any case, I was looking forward to my next post being about the Throwdown Grappling Tournament I was scheduled to compete in next Saturday, but my aspirations were recently derailed. On Thursday night, I was helping my training partner, Cody, prepare for his upcoming MMA fight while also getting my own training in for Throwdown.
During the middle of a physically grueling conditioning routine, my instructor had me take mount on Cody. I was supposed to maintain mount while punching him, and he was instructed to escape mount and improve his positioning. Cody got me off balance and initiated a scramble. During the scramble, Cody’s knee blasted me on the forehead. It got my attention, but didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the conditioning routine we were doing so I kept going for a moment. Then, I noticed something. The mat had changed colors. The formerly blue mat was now crimson! I wasn’t even aware the blood was mine until I wiped my hand across my forehead trying to remove what I thought was sweat from the conditioning. Nope, not sweat.
I immediately got off of Cody, and noticed the mixture of horror and wonder displayed on all my training partner’s faces. My head had turned in to a veritable Rainbird! I ran in to the bathroom, and looked at the new feature Cody’s knee added to my face. Luckily, one of the guys I train with knew what to do. He got some Vaseline, butterfly strips, and a few gobs of toilet paper, and taped it all on my head.
I then called up Katchie to let her know, and she bolted out of our house and picked me up to take me to the ER. I couldn’t believe how fast she got from our house to Westside Jiu-Jitsu, and then from Westside to McKay Dee Hospital. She’s like an even hotter version of Danica Patrick!
Anyway, while the doc was cleaning out my Face Canyon I noticed Katchie looked very pale. Nevertheless, I convinced her to take some pretty sweet pictures on my phone (I’d upload them, but I don’t know how. For those that are curious, I’ll text them to you). Well, two layers of thirteen stitches later I was packed up and sent on my way.
At work yesterday, I devised a plan to avoid 1) explaining 50 times what happened, and 2) avoid all the extraordinarily clever, “Won’t mouth off to Katchie again, will ya? Har Har!” comments I typically get after the occasional black eye or fat lip. I gathered all the kids and staff in to groups, and told the story that way. Problem solved. A new problem arose, however, when several kids (and Mace for some reason) commented that my scar will look like Harry Potter’s scar!
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Since I’m neither a prepubescent child nor pedophile, my Harry Potter knowledge is a bit lacking. Since several people mentioned my scar’s resemblance to that worn by an imaginary male witch, I decided to Google it. Sure as shit, my scar DOES look like Harry Potter’s scar.
How bad does that suck? Seriously. When I first saw it I was thinking, “Sweet! A lightning bolt scar. I’m a man now!” Nope, Harry Potter. Here’s a better look at it:
The worst part is I don’t get to compete in the tournament next Saturday, and may not even be ready in time for the Boise tournament at the end of April due to the cut’s depth. I’d been training hard, and this is a huge let down. Anyway, I have to go to court for one of my clients on Tuesday and meet with a caseworker on Wednesday. Nothing screams professionalism like Harry Potter. In any case, it should be an interesting conversational piece for the rest of my life. I suppose the scar could serve as an experiential example for that cheesedick metaphor, “Time heals all wounds.” Well, enough lamenting for today. I need to hop on the ol’ broom and zip off to Walmart.