It was the mid 80’s and I received a call from my middle son in the middle of the day. “Dad, I’ve twisted my balls!” This was a cry for help and the funniest thing I’d ever heard. I had no idea what was wrong and what he’d done but it was killing me!
I asked a few questions and the story unfolded. It seems he was playing King of the Hill in front of his high school with several other football players and assorted friends, and the idea was when you reached the top of the hill, you fought off all onslaughts so you could stay there, at any cost. (Perhaps not at the cost of your testicles but it hadn’t come up in their conversations.)
I immediately left work (or where ever I was) and got him and we went home. He was in pain and I called the doctor and made an immediate appointment, because as it turns out, if you in fact twist your testicles internally you only have a few hours before they die and have to be removed. This is not a good situation. His embarrassment went from a simple embarrassing moment to a serious problem.
The Doctor got an immediate appointment with a specialist (a ball doctor I presume) and off we went. The person at the desk was unfortunately also a student at the same high school as my son, and a very pretty young lady. My son went kind of mute when she asked what was wrong as he could not get up the courage needed to explain about his testicles and King of the Hill.
We went inside and the Doctor examined him and nothing had really been turned, so he had pain, took some Motrin or something, and went home, much relieved.
I was relieved as well, and appreciate my grandchildren even more than normally, because there was this time when I considered he may never have been able to reproduce, although at the time it seemed more like a blessing!
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