While shaving my legs earlier I was opened up to a whole new world of retrospect. I had three decently sized bruises that I had absolutely no recollection of receiving. This isn’t exactly uncommon, but it just flooded back memories of my childhood.
As a kid I wasn’t reluctant to fighting. In fact, up until age 11 I was in one every 6 months. The good thing is those of us involved were smart enough not to get caught even if we were on school grounds and no one was dumb enough to rat us out. I grew up in an area where my friends and “enemies” were all the little brothers and sisters of gang members and were more than likely future gang members themselves. Now I’m not saying any of these kids brought heavy weaponry to school, but we were all pre-programmed with an acute awareness of the violence that surrounded us. I was involved in more than one fight that wasn’t simply one person against another, but group against group. Call it an elementary school rumble, if you will. I could take a punch and I was generally matched with someone my size or bigger because I could.
It all seems pretty laughable now, but the point is I never shied away from physical confrontations regardless of my opponent. Things changed when we moved from one coast to the other and fights weren’t quite as common so my focus turned from hand to hand to sports, specifically softball. What a better way to get out all of that extra energy than smacking a ball around?
I was always competitive sometimes to a fault. As a catcher in fast pitch I was dangerous. If you wanted to steal a base you could try, but you bet your ass my ball would be coming for your head as you slid in or I would be in your way if you tried to come home and the ball was coming my way. I could take it as hard as I gave it. I had no issues with taking a hit and I loved to steal bases. Unfortunately one of the side effects of playing hard is injuries.
For many people little black and blue contusions are something they cover up. Bruises are temporary imperfections as the result of a mistake or misstep, a visible indication of human frailty. Scars carry a story of embarrassment or violence and in some cases this is true, but in the case of playing hard those imperfections are anything but signs of delicacy. In fact, they are quite the opposite.
In regards to the focus of this article bruises show how strong we can be. Broken bones can be momentous occasions. I view them as trophies. They’re a visible acknowledgement of a physical accomplishment. They are an indication of a person who pushed past the pain and stepped out of a comfort zone in an attempt to reach a physical goal. Whether the goal is reached is irrelevant. As Arthur Ashe is quoted, “Success is a journey, not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome.”
Bruises, broken bones and scars are the little imperfections that help document our life story. I value every one of mine regardless of the circumstance, but the ones I most appreciate are those I earned. I don’t hide from my actions; I own them, I celebrate them and I cherish them. So I say bring on the pain and break out the indigo and violet clothes. So much better to bring out my black and blue trophies.
“Our scars remind us that the past is real.” – Papa Roach