It was harmless enough. I picked up a basketball and started shooting hoops. I got one in looking around to see if anyone noticed. Then a second, a third. By the time I made a 5th basket I was smiling inside and out. Then it happened, my career was cut short. I looked down and the last returning ball had left its mark on my little pinky. 

My finger was out of joint. Let me point out this is the same finger I once broke in a volleyball game years ago. Sadly, it’s also the same finger which broke when I used it as a make-shift brake on a runaway sled I was riding with my little boy. 

Running to get help while keeping my eyes on my two little grandchildren I reached a father also in the gym.

“Can I just put it back?” I asked with urgency.

“I don’t know,” he responded.

On I went to another person.

I repeated, “Can I just put it back in place?”

“You can try,” she responded watching me.

And then, I surprised even myself as I took a firm grasp of the dislocated pinky and put it back in place.

“Are you able to bend it?” she asked.

There, in my presence God had provided a nurse’s assistant.

“We better put ice on it.”

Within moments my finger was iced, I was seated to try and relax and I started to breathe. Visions of me seated in an emergency room were not what I wanted this weekend.

Well, days later, I am still babying my pinky and thankful it didn’t break.

My grandson’s take on the whole episode,

“I don’t think you should play with the basketball, Gwamma.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

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