We were playing ping pong. As usual it got heated. Competition and brotherly love go hand in hand.
I was, and still am, the lesser abled of the two Stokes boys. I am not athletically talented.
My hand eye coordination, not so great.
Anyway, we were playing ping pong and my brother spiked it at me. It was a perfect spike. Hit right on the corner.
Being the sore loser I am, which is such a wonderful partner to an inability to perform athletic functions well, I told him he wasn't playing fair.
He actually was.
I served it and SPIKE.
I served again and SPIKE again.
The next thing I did... I'm not proud of.
I threw the paddle at my brother.
He turned around.
But he didn't duck.
Which means he got hit in the back of the head with the paddle.
My brother dropped to his knees and covered the back of his head with his hands.
I said, "Aaron, you okay?!"
Aaron pulled his hands away and began to make a couple of fists.
Had there not been blood on his hands at the next moment, I'd probably be dead and not writing this post right now.
His head was bleeding. A wooden ping pong paddle hurled through the air hitting the back of a head will cause such a thing.
I was left with only one thing to do.
I called my mom.
Mom worked as an RN at the local hospital.
"Mom?!? Mom! I think Aaron's head is bleeding!"
This was my brilliance at work, letting her in easy with the news.
Mom, used to my choice of words, "Stuart, what do you mean... You THINK Aaron's head is bleeding?"
Quickly back pedaling due to a loss of ground, I had to let mom know why I hurled the paddle in the first place.
"See mom, Aaron spiked the ball at me and I got mad. I threw my paddle toward him and he didn't get out of the way."
And now is the moment, dear reader, that you must pay close attention.
"Stuart, put him in your car and drove him to the hospital. I'll meet you in the ER and we'll see if he needs any stitches."
And that story is my offering to my brother, Aaron. I love him so much and miss getting to see him.