I’ll never forget the first time I saw Bobby Steinmetz take off his leg. It was the first day of freshman P.E. class, and we were changing out of our sweaty gym clothes and heading for the showers. Just as casually as you might remove your shoes and socks, Bobby unstrapped the artificial leg and hopped into the shower on his good one. The amputation was a few inches below the knee. None of us knew the story behind it, and nobody felt brave enough to ask. Someone said he’d slipped while trying to jump onto a train, but that sounded too far-fetched to me.
In spite of how he limped when he walked, Bobby struck me as pretty tough guy. The only classes we had together during our four years of high school were freshman and sophomore P.E. It wasn’t so strange that our paths didn’t cross elsewhere because we were part of the largest high school class the state of Oregon had ever seen—close to 900 students. But a tragic incident during our sophomore year brought us closer than either of us ever expected.
For a couple weeks our P.E. instructor, Mr. DiNucci, had been teaching us all kinds of wrestling moves. Each day we’d be matched up against another class member to practice what we’d learned. Wrestling was definitely not one of my favorite sports, made even more un-favorite because during one of our practice matches, my opponent’s elbow smashed into my face and broke my nose. While all my friends told me my nose looked cool hanging to one side, Dad took me to our family doctor who inserted cotton swabs on long wooden sticks into my nostrils and pushed things back into place. Painful.
At the end of our wrestling unit Mr. DiNucci announced we’d soon be having a written quiz. Then we’d move on to a different sport. On the day of the quiz we were all laying around on the padded floor of the wrestling room, working on our quiz papers. Some of us finished early, and that’s when the trouble began.
One of the guys grabbed Wayne Simmons’ pen, and we began tossing it among ourselves, playing “keep-away” from Wayne. Then someone lobbed it out into an open area on the wrestling mat, about 10 feet away. Bobby Steinmetz and I were the closest ones to it, so we both scurried toward it on our hands and knees, shoulder-to-shoulder. I was clenching a brand new pencil in my right hand—with the sharp tip pointing toward the ceiling. Bobby reached Wayne’s pen a half-second before I did. Grabbing the pen with his left hand, he pulled it toward his chest and rolled over sideways—right into me. His upper left arm and shoulder crashed directly into my right hand—the one holding the pencil. And there was a snapping sound.
When we’d recovered from the collision, the first thing I noticed was that only half of my pencil—the half with the eraser—was still in my hand. That's because Bobby had snapped it in half when he rolled into me. I began looking around for the broken half, but I couldn’t see it anywhere. And that was when I noticed that Bobby was grabbing his left arm in obvious pain. You know the area on your upper arm where they typically give vaccinations? Well, in that area of Bobby’s upper-left arm was a hole about the size of a dime. As I looked at it I remember thinking how strange it was that I could actually be looking inside of his arm and there be no blood running out. Then I looked more closely, and my stomach sank as I saw the broken end of my pencil looking back at me from inside Bobby’s arm. We were both stunned. While I was mumbling “I’m sorry,” over and over, we both realized he needed medical attention. So I walked with him towards Mr. DiNucci who was visiting with another instructor at the front of the room. I’m sure what I said didn’t make any sense at all … just a jumble of words: “Bobby’s arm . . . Pencil . . . Accident.”
In spite of how he limped when he walked, Bobby struck me as pretty tough guy. The only classes we had together during our four years of high school were freshman and sophomore P.E. It wasn’t so strange that our paths didn’t cross elsewhere because we were part of the largest high school class the state of Oregon had ever seen—close to 900 students. But a tragic incident during our sophomore year brought us closer than either of us ever expected.
For a couple weeks our P.E. instructor, Mr. DiNucci, had been teaching us all kinds of wrestling moves. Each day we’d be matched up against another class member to practice what we’d learned. Wrestling was definitely not one of my favorite sports, made even more un-favorite because during one of our practice matches, my opponent’s elbow smashed into my face and broke my nose. While all my friends told me my nose looked cool hanging to one side, Dad took me to our family doctor who inserted cotton swabs on long wooden sticks into my nostrils and pushed things back into place. Painful.
At the end of our wrestling unit Mr. DiNucci announced we’d soon be having a written quiz. Then we’d move on to a different sport. On the day of the quiz we were all laying around on the padded floor of the wrestling room, working on our quiz papers. Some of us finished early, and that’s when the trouble began.
One of the guys grabbed Wayne Simmons’ pen, and we began tossing it among ourselves, playing “keep-away” from Wayne. Then someone lobbed it out into an open area on the wrestling mat, about 10 feet away. Bobby Steinmetz and I were the closest ones to it, so we both scurried toward it on our hands and knees, shoulder-to-shoulder. I was clenching a brand new pencil in my right hand—with the sharp tip pointing toward the ceiling. Bobby reached Wayne’s pen a half-second before I did. Grabbing the pen with his left hand, he pulled it toward his chest and rolled over sideways—right into me. His upper left arm and shoulder crashed directly into my right hand—the one holding the pencil. And there was a snapping sound.
When we’d recovered from the collision, the first thing I noticed was that only half of my pencil—the half with the eraser—was still in my hand. That's because Bobby had snapped it in half when he rolled into me. I began looking around for the broken half, but I couldn’t see it anywhere. And that was when I noticed that Bobby was grabbing his left arm in obvious pain. You know the area on your upper arm where they typically give vaccinations? Well, in that area of Bobby’s upper-left arm was a hole about the size of a dime. As I looked at it I remember thinking how strange it was that I could actually be looking inside of his arm and there be no blood running out. Then I looked more closely, and my stomach sank as I saw the broken end of my pencil looking back at me from inside Bobby’s arm. We were both stunned. While I was mumbling “I’m sorry,” over and over, we both realized he needed medical attention. So I walked with him towards Mr. DiNucci who was visiting with another instructor at the front of the room. I’m sure what I said didn’t make any sense at all … just a jumble of words: “Bobby’s arm . . . Pencil . . . Accident.”
Bobby was hustled off to the office of the school nurse. My fate was yet to be determined. I’ll never get over what did NOT happen next. Mr. DiNucci didn’t ask me anything about the incident, nor did any other teacher or administrator—not that day—not ever. Here I was expecting to be hauled off to the principal—or worse, to Mr. Kanas, the tough vice-principal. But no teacher or administrator said one word to me about what had happened.
I went through the rest of that day in a daze, wondering where and how Bobby was. I didn’t talk about what happened with anyone, not even my closest friends. With that gory scene replaying itself over and over in my mind, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. When I got home, I didn't dare tell my folks. So I just kept it all wrapped up inside and felt awful.
Bobby didn’t show up for P.E. class the next day--or the day after—or the day after that. Every day that passed without seeing him only reinforced my worst fears: that his arm had been seriously damaged, or maybe even amputated! To match his leg! With every day that passed without seeing Bobby, I became more scared. I knew that it was only going to be a matter of time before my parents would receive a phone call from the school—or Bobby’s parents—or the police. But nobody ever called.
One day, after living with these gut-wrenching fears for almost two weeks, I walked into P.E. class—and there he was! As I said earlier, he was a pretty tough-acting guy, so I immediately feared that he was going to beat me up. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say much to me at all. And when he did, he spoke softly. The only thing I remember was that he made some remark about “blood poisoning.” Clearly visible on his upper arm was a scar where an incision had been made. It looked about 3 inches long. I was so very relieved that he was ok and that he hadn’t lost his arm. But I didn’t know how to put any of my feelings into words, so I just kept quiet. No apologies. No “sure glad you’re ok.” Nothing.
I never did tell my parents.
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