The Agony of Defeat

I collapsed to the hardwood floor, clutching my head, hearing nothing, seeing only black with flecks of white. I thought, insanely, “I wonder if this is what they mean by ‘seeing stars’?” Doza tried to ascertain if I was in serious trouble or just needing to writhe for a while. It crossed my mind that I had heard my safety glasses skitter across the floor just after I bashed my noggin into a very unyielding wall. Or had the ball knocked them off when I smacked it into my own face?

Eventually I was able to open my eyes to a cloudy world. I staggered up and off the court, in search of a water fountain. I kept checking my head for blood, but my fingers came back drenched only in sweat from the game. Good news, except that a bloody mess is for whatever reason something that I consider easier to explain than a random bruise on one’s dome. Indeed, minutes after my altercation with the wall, Doza noted that I was developing a significant knot over my left eye and it had developed a crisp purple hue.

Since then the purple coloration has faded into a disgruntled-looking pink, but the swelling hasn’t gone down in the least. And I’ve had a headache ever since.

Plus, I lost the game. I’m not exactly competitive in the traditional sense, but if I’m going to suffer a near concussion, don’t you think for no other reason than dramatic impact that I should have won?

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