I was always a little precocious. At 4 years old, I remember having my first crush on my neighbor. I even remember trying to talk differently, more “adultly” (look it up, try me) when she was around. At 6, I remember playing house. At 8, sneaking off behind the school building during recess to hold hands with my girlfriend. Always very precocious. So I remember clearly when at 10, my 3 favourite things in the world were brought together. My crush, animals, and soccer. Sounds perfect right? Screw you.
My friends and I would get together every afternoon and play soccer. We played for hours out in the street, until we were called for dinner or we lost a ball. We all thought we were amazing, we were always competing. Yet we all cared for each other and kept an eye out when cars or strangers approached. And of course, my overprotective mom also helped. “Car! Son, there’s a car coming! It’s getting close! It’s only two blocks away! Pick up the ball son and get on the sidewalk! Son! Do it! Son! Son! Oh My God! Madre de Dios hijito! Hijo! Ayyy!” It was quite a sight to watch my mom almost Acapulco dive off the third floor balcony to stop the car coming down the road with her bare hands.
But I digress.
One of my friends had two older sisters. Older. One of them was in a catholic high school (man could she work that uniform). The other, pre-med in college and she was my ultimate Wendy Peffercorn (if you haven’t watched the Sandlot, turn off the computer,Netflix it, enjoy it with friends and family and then dive off a bridge because you’re a waste of space and that movie’s awesome). She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and she was always so sweet and nice to me. She took the time to sit with me and talk to me, joke, ask me about my day, introduce me to her boyfriends. She was probably trying to make them jealous.
One fine day, my friends and I were engaging in our daily scrimmage. We kicked the ball around. My mom stood watch from the balcony with her binoculars, alarms, and EMS crew on speed dial. My two older crushes (Let’s call them Salma and Penelope) had just arrived and were sitting on the stoop watching us play. I was running faster, jumping higher, kicking harder than ever.
Then out of nowhere, one of the neighbor’s German Shepherds gets out of their front gate. He sees me running, makes a dash towards me. I see the 800 pound dog, full of muscle, foaming at the mouth, with hate in his eyes, running towards me. I think I even heard him say, “I’m gonna get you fucker!” I turn, try to run away. Maybe towards an open gate, or on top of a car. Where are you now mom!??!?!?!?!
Then I feel it! CHOMP! I scream! I keep om screaming! I fall to the floor with this huge beast on me. I scrape my knees and hands on the concrete. I hit my head, his claws rip my shirt.
But all I can feel are his massive canines firmly gripped on my left testicle. Yes, my little family jewels, my sack’o’nuts, Richard and the twins. Somehow this animal chased me down, bit me from behind, and found a way to bite my balls. “There he is! I’m gonna go try and bite him in the nuts!”
I’m writhing in agony. I feel like I’m about to faint. The dog owner is pulling the beast off me. My friends are crying (I think one of them was laughing, but I hear he’s a crackhead now, so ultimately I think we’re even) and somehow my mom is screaming next to me trying to lift me up (how the hell did she get there so fast? Did this lady rappel down the building?).
“Hijo! Hijo! Ayy mi’jito! Are you ok? Talk to me! Say something! Ayyyyy hijo!”
Salma and Penelope are next to her, trying to comfort her, trying to lift me up. I’m in the middle of the street. Screaming. There’s a bit of a traffic jam now with cars not being able to move because of this boy in the street with a hole in his scrotum. All the neighbors are out now. They’re on their phones. I think some had cameras. I think I saw a news truck.
“Ayyyy Penelope! Is he ok?! What do we do Penelope?” My mom stands me up in the middle of the street, takes off my belt. Suddenly my shorts and my whitey tighties are around my ankles. I hear snickers. Did I see a flash? I hear a gasp. The crackhead-to-be is rolling on the floor laughing. Penelope looks at me. This gorgeous lady’s two eyes are fixed on my one-eyed monster (yeah, keep it classy buddy) and she says, “He’s ok. The dog didn’t even draw blood.”
And I begin to cry.