Bring me your tired, your huddled....

And now for another excerpt from the collection of odd accidents that was my childhood.

My elder brother was having a Barbecue at his place - an event that I, a devoted and practicing carnivore at the time, was understandably excited about. This time, however, I was at - there's no easy way to put this - cricket practice (a story for another post) - and I wasn't able to get to his place until everyone else had already arrived.

'Tim!' they all said, with that warm tone of welcome that adults use on children, and which children inevitably love (even if they pretend they don't).
'I just have to get changed, and I'll be right out', I said, greatly looking forward to the awaiting succulent hunks of charred meat.

I went into my brother's room (I had, with unusual foresight, brought a change of clothing for the occasion). Halfway through changing, I looked in the corner of the room and saw... a mysterious black bag. Can you, in your heart of hearts, blame me for opening it?

The bag contained a big, red, heavy bowling ball. Most children, on finding such an object, might think: 'wouldn't it be fun to roll this across the floor for a bit?'

Not I. Instead, I thought: 'wouldn't it be fun, and even a little flattering, to pose with the bowling ball in front of the mirror?' (I had a rather strange body image at the time, I think.)

So, I gingerly took the ball from the bag, and slowly walked towards the smoked full-length mirror, my posture resembling someone who had just gotten a gigantic arm made of lead unexpectedly riveted to their right side.

It looked pretty cool, I must say. With my index and middle fingers lodged in the holes, I preened awhile and imagined myself as the junior 10-pin champion of the universe.

Next, I truly went for the epic. Imagining myself as a perfect (and non-hermaphroditic) hybrid of Michaelangelo's David and the Statue of Liberty, I slowly extended my right arm above my head, and held it aloft with ball attached.

I should stress at this point that my brother used a 16-pound ball. 16 pounds is around 7 kilograms - approximately the mass of an adult human head.

Triumphant, reveling in my own titanic strength, I looked proudly at my straining, wiry, right bicep-tricep combo, capped with the magificent red sphere. But I let my marble/copper sculpted daydream run away with me, lost concentration for a small interval, and closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, I noticed that the ball was forcing my ball-gripping fingers into a direction that they probably weren't supposed to go. Without support, the bowling ball surrendered custody to its old master - gravity.

Or, to put it another way, I dropped the bowling ball onto my face. Which is not quite as much fun as it sounds.

Regaining consciousness on the floor in a pool of my own blood, I opened my eyes to a closeup view of the blood-covered sphere and thought: isn't that funny: my blood's exactly the same colour as the ball!

Just switch to everyone else's perspective for a second: quiet boy goes into room to change out of his gym gear. Emerges with mild concussion, smashed lips, and bloodied face.

I couldn't talk for several hours, which did make explaining rather difficult.