Memories

A wicked line drive bounced off my head a few years ago.

Knocked me out cold.

I woke in the ambulance with a nuclear headache and a concussion.

However, on the way home from the emergency room, I remembered every experience I ever had, including my prenatal life. If you ask me what happened on the second Monday of March 1975, I’ll tell you what I wore, who I talked to, what we talked about, what I had to eat, what the weather was, and even my dreams. All of it is boring.

The most fascinating aspect of the new me involves the time before I was born. Two things come to mind.

First, the authorities sat me down for my pre-birth meeting. They gave me a list of the things I would be good at and the stuff at which I would suck. After reviewing the first list, I realized I would be average at best – average intelligence, average athlete, average emotional control, average- average- average.

The other side of the ledger was lengthy. I would never be a singer, a quick reader, a dancer, a musician, a card player, and many other things.

I thought, OK, there are better situations than this, but there you go.

The list included one thing at which I would be the best in the world.

The authorities explained that everyone receives one special talent that exceeds all humans. Now, 99.999% of our gifts could be more helpful.

I have asked friends and family about their gifts. Paul asserts he always selects the right-sized piece of Tupperware when storing leftover soup.

Another friend says they can stop the gas pump at an even dollar amount every time she fills up.

My sister claims she can wake up in the middle of the night from a deep sleep and know the time within a five-minute range.

These are all semi-valuable skills.

However, my talent is entirely useless. When swimming, I can cup my hands and hold a quarter cup of water for minutes. Then, I can squirt it into someone’s eye from fifteen feet away. Useless.

That’s all I will say about given aptitudes.

Second, during the pre-birth debriefing, the authorities said I would be the only son of a professional surfer who lives in Hawaii. I thought great, call me “Moondoggie.”

Then, something happened: wires were crossed, and mistakes were made.

In the hospital, right before I was about to head out, a nurse said, “Can you believe how bad The Bears were this season?”

Another attendant said, “This is the worst ice storm I remember.”

Finally, someone asked, “Mrs. Smith, how many children do you have?”

She replied, “I have three sons and two daughters.”

I thought, Damm. What about being an only child of a surfer in Maui? I wouldn’t be Moondoggie. I would be Buddy, Buzz, or Boogger.

What happened next is not one of my proudest moments. I turned around and tried to claw my way back.

My mother and I almost died.

Please forgive me, Mom. I was just a baby and didn’t know better.