narrative, finalized

If you were to look at my left hand, you would notice an unsightly scar. It is a pink creased line in the shape of a lightning bolt, or maybe even a “T”. Its more than just an ugly scar, it’s a story. It was a life changing event for me.
Rewind now to a month after my senior year, and high school graduation. It was the day after my graduation party; I had a headache, a few empty kegs, and a plethora of my friends lying in the grass around me. I was the first awake, and the sun was beating down on us relentlessly. I woke my friends, and conned them into another adventure. A week in the woods! No food! No water! No phones, chew, cigarettes… nothing! We would take guns, and knives. Anything we could hunt we would eat. It took a lot of convincing, as my friends aren’t as adventurous as myself. Yet, they agreed, and it was off to the forest we went. We were soon skipping under the canopy that was my parents’ woods. I led the team of scouts, hooting and hollering, to a place I had already decided on. A dry river bed, with a 5 foot waterfall. It was perfect. We would use the rock of the fall as the back wall of our shelter. If we were going to be staying a week, we would need a shelter, and a good one at that. I knew I had to be the one to build it. I took to the project like a pig to mud. I sent my good buddy Matt up a tree. It was a rather small tree, and the perfect one for the front entrance of our shelter. He hung onto the tree top, and pulled it down to me. I quickly tied the end to the ground, and began creating our new home. I was using a rather, or better yet, unnecessarily large knife to knock the branches of from this tree. This step was necessary in our building plan. I had my fist balled tightly around the tree, almost as if I was holding a beer. After a few good whacks on the branches, I began getting arrogant and careless. It didn’t take long for me to make a mistake, and a costly one at that. I swung the sword sized belt knife too hard. It went right through the branch, and into my balled fist. It hit my left index finger at a 45-degree angle, spraying my face with blood. I looked down to see my bone severed, and a rubber band looking tissue severed as well. That was my tendon. I quickly began swearing. Not yelling, or even cursing, just a few swear words at a time. I quickly took my shirt off, carfully as not to rip the skin that was now connecting my finger to the rest of me. I quickly wrapped my dangling finger in the shirt, before putting it under my armpit. I kept it tightly squeezed in my underarm to keep a good amount pressure applied, as this prevents bleeding. I grabbed a buddy, and ran the mile and a half obstacle course back to the house.
When I got to the house, I regained my composer, sensing this as a good opportunity to make a joke around my mother. It was a perfect set up. She was snoozing on the couch, and in the sun, like an outstretched cat. I woke her. “Mom, do you want to go to town?” “What for?” She rebutted in a groggy state. “To sew my finger back on? What do you think?” That is when I showed her. She was surprised, to say the least. She took me to the hospital, where I had 20-some stitches in my finger, and more in the tendon to reconnect it as well. I was put in a cast to stop my all my fingers from bending, as one bending can put stress on the other. To understand the rest of the evening’s events, you would almost have to know me on a personal level. Otherwise you might just think I’m crazy. After leaving the emergency room in an arm cast, and arriving home, I went back to the woods, to link up with my friends. Much to my disappointment my return to the woods was not a pleasant one. - I had brought one cigar, for myself. I am not a usual smoker, but I wanted to have one while enjoying nature.
My friends had smoked it. All that remained was a rubbed out- stepped on-dirt covered butt. I was almost in tears. We didn’t remain in the woods long though. Frog legs, a delicacy in some places, ended our night. My pal Matthew decided to boil one in beer, and eat it. This was nearly the end of him. He was quick to begin vomiting. Apparently, under cooked, beer boil frog legs, can cause food poisoning. Weird, huh?

All of this happened on a weekend. When Monday rolled around, and I received my usually check in call from Ripon head coach, Coach Ernst. I told him the situation I was in with my hand and finger, and all about my upcoming surgery. He made it clear to me that being in a cast, missing the upcoming summer camp, and preseason workouts wear going to cost me my spot on the team. He made it known that being unable to participate, would result in the early termination of my connection with Ripon football. I was done.
I didn’t see this injury as a life changing event, but plenty of others did. I cut my left index finger nearly off. I severed tendons, and bone. I was supposed to spend the next 3 months in a full arm cast, and attend physical therapy. What the doctors really meant was, that they wanted me to sit idly by, and watch my dreams sink away.
The cast didn’t last long, but the dreams are no longer a possibility. This is when I realized, I would no longer be a college athlete. I wouldn’t get my chance to play college ball, as my eligibility had started, and it was too late to get on another team. Besides, what team wants to chance it on a kid with a hand that might not function?
I, being the person that I am, did not miss a step. I simply told Mr. Ernst how good my foot would look, protruding from his backside, and hung up. Then I called the next person on my list, Sgt. McAdams United States Marine Corps. I chose a new goal, right then, right there. Not necessarily what I had hoped for, but what I was going to do.
He told me that by law, I would have to wait until my cast is off, for me to begin talking of enlisting. That was easy, I got it wet, and slipped it off with a Buck knife. I told him my story, and we conceived a way for me to get in without lying, yet without disclosing the gravity of the injury I sustained.
In just a few weeks, I was well on my way to becoming a Marine, it wasn’t what I had wanted, but in a way, I was still going to be a profession athlete. Someone who is paid to stay in shape, and whose athletic performance can mean success or failure for his team. In this case, failure means death.

It wasn’t the glorious dream I been having about football. Hell, it wasn’t even close. Football was pretty, with shining lights reflecting off from the helmets, girls lined up to cheer you on, fans in the stands shouting your name, hoping you do well. No the marines were different. It is dirty, and foul. At times seeming like a punishment, that I had chosen to endure. Though, the completion of each day brought about a sense of success, and bond to the other Marines that even football could not compare to. In the end it, it wasn’t my boyhood dream filled, it was my new adult dream, made a reality.