I used to love to roller skate as a child, I had requested said skates one year & Father Christmas heard my plea and I unwrapped them that year in the summer of '79 - green plastic with sparkily yellow oversized wheels. Fan-bloody-tastic! Not too good for going around our street in New Zealand - it was unpaved gravel - this isn't to say I didn't try, but after being brought back to the house by the neighbor with small stones firmly lodged in my hands and shins, blood oozing around the puncture wounds where I'd fallen after the gravel locked my wheels, I was forbidden from trying to roller skate on unpaved ground.
My parents were divorced, so my brother and I used to travel by train to visit our Mum every other weekend. During the summer, we'd be with her for 3 of the 6 week holiday. After a pleasant train ride, we were in sunny Paraparaumu, on the Kapiti coast of New Zealand.
Across the road from our Mum's house was the neighbors, they happened to have a daughter, Fiona who was around our age.
Well, as happens during the summer you become fast friends, Fiona was actually closer to my brother in age so she was sometimes a little short on patience with me. As I had my nice new roller skates for the summer vacation (it is NZ remember!) we decided to go to the local roller rink to try out our moves.
Now the local roller rink in Paraparaumu was an outside affair, concrete, with one end crimped in lovely waves so skaters could catch a little air doing jumps and leaps.
I was no where near a leaper, and for the first 20 minutes or so was quite content to circle the flat end of the rink staying far away from the rippled concrete at the rinks other end.
Fiona and my brother decided a game of tag was in order, and as two isn't much to play tag with, I was duly invited into the "big league". I was a better roller skater than my brother, but being older he could get up more steam, plus when he was mad he'd knock me to the floor anyway. I wasn't "it", Fiona had tagged my brother and he had me in his sights. I began heading towards the "bad lands" (the lovely waves of concrete) in the hopes of losing my brother in one of the folds. I executed a turn, unexpectedly changed direction and began to build up speed as I neared the first crest of a wave - a.i.r. - bump, down into the low part of the wave. I hear my brother shouting that he's coming after me and is going to kick my ass once he gets hold of me, MORE SPEED JIM, MORE SPEED! Flush with the success of the first jump I'm sure I can execute a second. I make it to the top, zoom into the air not realizing this wave has a steeper landing incline than the first, I tumble in the air and land on my left wrist.
Pain, unbelievable f*&k*ng pain. I'm crying, my brother and Fiona arrive looking disgusted that their game of tag has been interrupted by my, obviously to them, minor injury. Now, neither of them was a doctor, but being 18 months older they felt it was their duty to tell me to shut up as I was fine.
I wanted to leave, to call Mum and have her pick us up early to take us back. I was informed we'd only been there 30 minutes, so I was to shut up, stop crying and go sit by the side of the rink until they were ready to go.
What was a boy to do?
I duly sat and waited - then, what was to appear? Mana from heaven is what! By some unknown 6th mother sense, my Mum pulled up to the rink. I went over, tear stained face, wrist cradled in the other hand and got into the back seat of the blessed vehicle. A disgusted brother and Fiona climbed in as well and off we went for ice cream.
That night, still complaining about my wrist, I was told to go to bed and that I'd feel better in the morning.
I tossed and turned, trying to cry into my pillow so as not to disturb my family around me with the pain in my arm. Finally, after a fitful night dawn arrived and I got up. My mother was looking paticularly cross, along with my brother. When asked if she was ok, my Mum replied "No, your moaning kept me up all night." I thought this particularly unfair, as I'd been trying to moan into my pillow all night, apparently I needn't have bothered with the hot face in the fluffy pillow, I could have wailed all night into the cool open air.
During breakfast I was again told I was ok, and that to prove that I was just milking this I was to be taken to the doctor that afternoon. This was apparently supposed to shut me up and stop me crying wolf, or some such other perverse logic.
We arrived at the doctors office, and after an x-ray the doctor informed my family that I had a green stick fracture that needed to be set right away.
How sweet guilt can be, when your own mother has told you to shut up because nothing is wrong and then to have her, and your mean ass brother corrected by someone with a degree is SO satisfying.
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