Being Bad

Memories of being a little kid are very surreal. Almost as if they’d never happened. Almost as if it’s not my own life I’m remembering but instead some movie that I once saw. I suppose that’s what happens as you grow older.

It should be no surprise, but I’ve been told by my relatives, I was a little hellion growing up. But most of it I don’t remember.

Like my Grandmother recalling how I used to “beat her” with a stuffed Big Bird doll. Or My Father retelling the story of how I repeatedly banged my head on the road outside Larias Cigar Shop in Torrington when he wouldn’t buy me a Halloween mask I wanted from the display window. ( maybe it makes sense that I don’t remember that one )

But one story that occasionally gets retold at family functions that I recall all to clearly is the one about me punching poor Grampy in the balls. For some reason I remember that as if it happened yesterday….So, forgive me for my sins and read on…

I must of been 6 or 7. I was really starting to pay attention to the things I saw on TV. One thing that I noticed on the boob tube: When a man gets hit in the privates, it really, really hurts.

It was afternoon on a bright sunny day. I remember walking into our kitchen. My Grandfather was standing near the window. He was gazing out into the back yard. He had a smoke in one hand and a bottle of Budweiser in the other.

I casually walked up behind him. I gently grabbed him by his wrist and turned him toward me. Of course he showed no resistance. He loved me.

As soon as Grampy was facing me directly, I wound up. I cocked my arm back as far as I could. I focused my attention squarely on his crotch. Then with all my might, I socked him. Square in the balls.

What I remember best is the bottle of bud. He immediately dropped it. My attention focused on it as it hit the floor and began to spin around as the beer poured out.. I didn’t look at My Grandfather. I just turned and ran…

I remember sitting in my room. Not sure of what I’d done. About 15 minutes later My Father came in.

“Why did you do that to Grampy” My father asked

“I dunno” ( what else would I say? )

“I don’t ever want you to do that again….You could of killed him” My father said sternly.

Saying that I could of killed Grampy was enough to make me never wanna punch him there again. After My father left the room I decided to see the damage with my own eyes. I slowly crept down the hallway toward the kitchen. I peered around the corner.

I saw my poor Grandfather sitting at the kitchen table. To this day the image is burned into my brain. His legs were crossed, both hands were in this lap. His glasses were off. His eyes were closed and his head was tilted back. His mouth was wide open. The message was loud and clear: He was in pain. TV wasn’t lying. Getting hit in the balls really, really hurts.

Years later, when I was old enough to truly realize how awful it was, what I’d done, My Mother said something odd to me. Apparently when she arrived home from work that night, My father attempted to tell her what their impressionable 6 yr old son had done to his Grandfather. The only problem was, My father couldn’t get the story out because he was laughing so hard.

Once again, TV had told the truth: Getting hit in the balls really really hurts. But as long as your not the one being hit, it’s also really really hilarious.


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