Well, this is a dilemma. What am I going to do with you? How about you stop harassing me, so I can make a decision? Your mother wants you in track, but you’re too big and slow to run. Not to mention that you’re also to puny to throw. I’ll throw discus; how hard can it be? As I argued with my seventh-grade self, I had decided that I would throw discus, as well as work high school meets to observe better technique. Little did I know that I would be the first in my sleepy little town to have a unique experience.

During the last meet of the season, my co-workers and I were all standing near the discus cage. We were all a bit bored and tired when all of a sudden, a wild dollar appeared on the wind from the direction of the concession stand. As the first to see it, I picked it up, but as I was the youngest and smallest, one of my more aggressive co-workers tried to take it from me. Luckily, I was small enough to slip away from his grasp and kept the dollar. Maybe being smaller isn’t such a bad thing. Later I would be able to buy a small lunch with it between sets of throwers called “flights.”

Some plan that turned out to be. After I had purchased and eaten my lunch, I had to go back to work, this time for the high school girl throwers. My job was to watch where the discus landed and mark it, so the others could measure the distance thrown with what is essentially an oversized tape measure. After a few throws, I began to get bored again, and I grew complacent. I began spacing out between throws, only paying attention when I felt I needed to.

Then I heard the sound that saved my life: an alarmed “Hey!” from the crowd. I turned my head about forty-five degrees towards the shout, instantly alert, and what I saw left me momentarily paralyzed. An out-of-bounds throw: a red twelve-pound discus hurtled directly towards my head like a vicious dinner plate. Vaguely in the background of the image embedded in my mind, I saw a relatively short figure with long blond pigtails wearing a blue uniform and probably would have appeared quite attractive had I not been so preoccupied with the life-threatening scene facing me.

After the split second I had to realize that the discus would hit me, the discus struck me just on my hairline above my left eye, sending me sprawling onto the freshly cut grass as if tackled by a linebacker. Even though I was not bleeding, the metallic smell of blood pervaded my senses, along with the throbbing sensation in my forehead that accompanied my heartbeat, which had sped up tremendously. Oddly enough, I felt little pain and immediately felt the urge to stand. Despite the numb lack of pain, I knew I was badly injured and fought the instinct to rise. A golf cart soon arrived with school officials to transport me to a nearby hospital. “Are you all right?” the coach sounded panicked.
“I’m fine,” I shrugged off his words and tried to resist his help.
“You just got hit in the head with a discus,” he sounded matter-of-fact, as if I wasn’t aware of what happened.
“I know; I was there.”
“What is your name?” he said, his voice sounding with resumed concern.
“Robert.”

“Where are your parents?”

“How should I know?” My voice was crisp, with a warning tone despite being badly injured. You should probably cooperate more with the guy; he’s trying to save your life. Do you think there will ever be another chance to talk to him like this? Well, no, but you should just let him help you. No, I was planning on just lying here to die— of course, I’m going to let him help me!

The coach asked many more questions in a feeble, but successful, attempt to keep me conscious on the way to the emergency room. On arrival at the hospital, a nurse led me to a small room with a hospital bed and the standard white, bulky equipment. Taking a look around, I noticed a small black and white analog clock hanging on the wall above a counter; I took note of the time and lay back: 5:33. Despite the knowledge that it was bad to fall asleep with a potential concussion, I was physically and mentally exhausted by the incident; I had been running on pure adrenaline. Sitting there, watching the clock, I just kept waiting for a doctor to arrive.
I must have been dozing because each time I glanced at the time, the numbers were growing more distant: 5:35, 5:41, 5:58. A doctor finally entered the small white room: 6:04. I et hit in the head with a discuss, and a doctor takes half an hour to show up? As it turned out, I had no concussion, no fractured or broken skull, and no injury more severe than a splitting headache and a drooping black eye. However, had I not heard that shout, that discus would have hit me directly in the temple of my head, likely to kill me on impact.

After looking back on the day, I remember the dollar that I fought to keep. Maybe if I hadn’t kept it, I wouldn’t have been hit, and I still wonder if a single measly dollar could really cause enough negative karma to nearly kill me.