On a cloudless day, I bounded across the freshly-mowed grass for the rolling ball. My foot raked its apex in fluid stride — my eye caught the glare off the rippling creek water. A subtle over-rotation tossed me closer the way a rubbernecker veers toward the site of any accident — tires enthralled by voyeur madness. My arms flailed forward, legs trailing behind like Superman. I braced for the sting of a scrape. Rolling over, I saw a flash of white as bright as the creek. Bits of rust from the jagged drainage pipe surrounded the jagged wound, which now gushed blood onto the edges of the uneven sidewalk.

Tendons remained intact. The surgeon only needed to layer stitches to close the flap. Crutches and minimal swelling seemed fortunate though travel tryouts loomed on the horizon. I had played with stitches before — the key being a heightened awareness and lack of paranoia.

It was the paranoia I was working on as we headed down the road at a nice clip. The speedometer read 80. I was staring directly at the Aerostar’s gauges: temperature, fuel, speed; and listening to the steady spattering of rain against the windows when the tires locked up. Hydroplaning is to stitches as a glass of water is to hiccups. We spun three full, tight circles across two lanes of traffic and struck an Indiana Highway sign.

THANKS FOR BUCKLING UP

I sat staring straight ahead. We both did. After a minute, my father turned to me from the driver seat.

“Are you ok?”

I nodded without expression.

“Good.”

He backed away from the dented sign and turned on his turn signal. We didn’t speak another word on the way to the soccer fields. Tryouts were the furthest thing from my mind. My knee sat neglected.

The Aerostar sustained only a few nicks. The rain continued during the day’s play. I slid forcefully through the mud — ripping stitches with renewed courage: a gaping hole filled with peroxide.

The coach welcomed me to the team weeks later over the phone. He told me I had a nose for the ball. If I could only keep my eyes on the road.