Pain is relative.
That's what I told the walk-in doctor this morning right before she jabbed a needle into the bicep muscle of my left arm.
Why? It had been more than 10 years since my last tetanus shot.
And when you walk into a doctor's office with a gaping wound on your knee from sliding into first base last night, a physician tends to ask questions.
Except that wasn't why I was paying my visit to the clinic.
I hit my up-the-gut single and stood on first base, comfortably. A lefty was up next. All night long, he had been going right-centre field.
This time, however, he fully turned on that inside pitch and drove it up the line. I had just enough time to spin away, so it didn't hit me in the chest.
The ball caught me on the left tricep - an inch lower and my elbow would have been shattered. Forty pounds lighter, and I might not have an arm left (holla up to the sturdy girls!).
Steamer, playing on the next field over, says he and his teammates heard the ball hit me.
I dropped to the ground like a sack of bricks. Luckily, my buddy, who was pitching, is well versed in First Aid. He knew all the right questions to ask, knew all the right moves to make.
I'll admit. It hurt. Not as bad as my broken hand, not as bad as the torn ligaments, but more than the broken wrist and the torn patellar tendon ... see? Relative.
And I needed a few minutes before I could get on my feet. My teammates - and, for that matter, my opponents - were tremendously concerned and, for that, I thank them.
But I shed no tears.
Physical pain is just something I can handle, for whatever reason. I suppose because it's a reality of the sporting life, one I've lived since I was five or so.
If only my heart could be so resistant!