Bobby Braun  − May, 1954

     As young boys we took several things for granted, that was just the way it was.  Eating, sleeping, playing, and doing chores were just routine aspects of our daily lives.  Eating and playing were, of course, the most enjoyable experiences – usually.  Sleeping was okay, except for the deadlines we had to normally meet, “Galen and Roy!  Time to get bed!  Now!” Chores, although they became routine (like a bad habit), were often times dreaded and sometimes avoided – which resulted in a few swats with the rubber strap (a friendly reminder of do’s and don’ts’).

 
     Likewise, bodily functions were routine.  When you had to go, you had to go.  Being a boy raised on the farm was the best in this regard.  A tree, the corner of a farm building, a ditch, or just plain out in the open spaces served as a relief station to take a leak (go potty, urinate).  The only catch was to not get caught by Mom or one of our sisters.  After all, that was what the outhouse was for – as we were often reminded of.  We always used the outhouses at school because the nuns had eagle eyes – and they could become ruthless when riled.

 
     It took a number of years to understand what those two ball-like things in a wrinkled sack that were attached up and behind the penis were actually for.  My first impression or awareness of their existence was they were a harbinger of pain – pain inflicted intentionally by someone else or occurring accidentally.

    You endured pain administered by a peer either in silence, or fear, if it infuriated you enough to take physical action in order to defend yourself.  While we waited for one of our parents (usually Mom) to pick us up at school, we would engage in a game of tag, swing on the swings, or just horse around and wrestle.

 
     On one such occasion a classmate named Bobby Braun and I got into a heated confrontation.  Name calling usually precipitated the actual physical contact.  “Hey Galen, you are a big, tall drink of water!”  Bobby teased. 

 
    “Oh yeah,” I shot back, “you are nothing but a sawed off stump!”

 
     “The bigger they are, the harder they fall!” he countered.

   
     “And you always have to smell the gas down there!”

 
     “Why you….,” he said while grabbing me by the leg and throwing me off balance.

 
     “Dang it,” I yelled as I attempted to grab him by the head as he knocked me to the ground.  We rolled around the hard surface spitting dirt as we tried to gain leverage on each other and an advantage.  “Ouch!”  I cried out as a sudden stabbing pain shot through my body.  Bobby had grabbed me by the nuts and was squeezing hard.

 
     “Say uncle!” he smirked.

 
     “Ouch!  Quit it!  That hurts!” I screamed as I pounded on his back with my fists.

 
     “Never!” he replied as he continued to apply pressure.

 
       Somehow I managed to break free of his grip and roll over behind him.  I was so furious and in shock from the pain that my only thought was, “I am going to kill the little bastard.”  I quickly put a headlock around Bobby’s neck and demanded he say, “Uncle!”

 
     “No-o-o,” he tried to utter.  So I increased the pressure while twisting his head to the side.  Fortunately for the both of us our older brothers began pulling us apart just as Bobby sputtered a weak, “Uncle.”

 
     The second, and also totally unexpected painful experience, was an accident which occurred because I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on.  We were playing baseball in the schoolyard during recess on a bright, sunny, spring afternoon.  On this particular day cousin Billy was hitting fly balls to several of us who were spread around the playground area.  My friend Bobby Kreutzer and I were having an animated conversation about me spending the upcoming Sunday with him.

 
     “Aren’t you and Roy scheduled to serve Mass Sunday?” Bobby inquired.

 
     “Yeah,” I answered.

 
     “Why don’t you talk your folks into letting you spend the day with me?”

 
     “We always have to milk the cows before we go to Church, so I don’t know why they wouldn’t let me.”

 
     “Good.  I will make sure it is okay with my folks.  Watch out Galen!  There’s a fly ball coming toward you!”

 
     “I see it.  What are we going to do after Church?”  I asked as I opened my ball glove up to snag the ball.  “Ow-w-w!”  I blurted out as I buckled to my knees.  I couldn’t breathe.  It was like a vacuum had sucked the air out of me.  And the pain in my groin area was intense.  I fell to my side doubled up in a fetal position.

 
     “The ball bounced off of the ground and hit you in the nuts,” Bobby exclaimed, “are you okay?  Speak to me!”

 
     Cousin Billy and the other players came rushing to my location.  “What happened to Galen?” Billy wanted to know.

 
     “He got hit in the nuts by the baseball,” Bobby said, his voice shakey.

 
     “Galen, can you hear me?”  Billy asked.  I was fighting for a breath of air, it felt like my nuts had been jammed up in my throat.  “I think I know what to do,” Billy said, “I saw my older brother do it once.”  He rolled me from my side to my back and started to lift me slowly up and down by grabbing my belt.  “Easy does it,” Billy directed me, “breathe in slowly.”

 
     I had to put up with swelling and tenderness in my groin area for several days following the incident.  I was beginning to think my nuts were worthless appendages like our tonsils were.  Needless to say, their function would become apparent in the near future in conjunction with puberty, acne, and stinky armpits.

Comments:

Oblivious (June 16, 2008. 09:25pm)

I still think they're useless. That, or nothing but trouble.