By Brandon Lehman
 This trophy is the result of a trusting act of stupidity coupled with a healthy fear of God and His right hand - my mom. To set the scene, I lived about two blocks from my high school and walked there and back every day, rain, snow, wind, what-have-you. As I was on my daily trek one particularly bright afternoon, some friends pulled up beside me to ask if I was going to cruise with them the following evening. I politely declined their offer, as I could not see the point of wasting gas driving up and down the same road for hours on end. However, recognizing the opportunity presented, I asked for a ride to my house. They politely declined. As it was on their way, I insisted, by sitting on the trunk of their car. In response, the kid driving floored it. So I'm sitting on the back of the car as it's gaining speed.
I see two choices before me. The first was to jump, but the car was quickly gaining speed and I had little confidence in my ability to keep pace once I hit the road. The second was to wait it out, since they had to stop or turn sometime. This second option, while logical, would probably take me farther out of my way than I was hoping to go. This second option would also, no doubt, be witnessed by my mother, who made a habit of watching for my sister and I after school. With her disdain for my actions clearly imagined, I chose option 1.
I completed two entire strides before losing my feet and sliding about 15 feet on my side. Thank God I'd had my new leather jacket on or my entire right side would have been in this photo. Anyway, as I got up and dusted off surveying the damage to my jacket I heard something. Strange how the sound of your own name, when screamed with enough fear and rage can sound alien to your ears. Yes, as I looked up, I was confronted with the sight of my mother standing on our front porch hollering to High Heaven for me to get my butt inside.
When I closed the remaining 50 yards to my house I could no longer see my mother, as she had disappeared inside the house but could hear her.
My father worked 3rd shift, so he generally slept through the day. Today, however, he had the privilege of being awoken by a sweet songbird as she ranted to him about my little tumble. I went upstairs to their room as she was starting to wind down. My poor father still bleary-eyed and dazed, was trying desperately to comprehend what was going on.
The only part of her speech that I remember was when she pointed to my leg and said "...and he tore his jeans," because it was then that I looked down and saw that my jeans were torn clean across the knee. Curious, I peeked in the hole and saw some familiar redness. I must have flushed a bit because she stopped her tirade and asked me if I needed to go downstairs and look at it. I was too concerned with the amount of blood I saw to take any relief in the excuse to vacate the room.
On my way down my knee started getting stiff. Upon depantsing (yes, i just made that word up) I saw what I could only describe as hamburger. Impact with the concrete, combined with forward momentum, was enough to remove the skin of my knee in an area about the size of a large egg. I should have probably gotten a skin graft, but in true Man style, no broken bones = no need for a hospital.
It took months to heal entirely and made wrestling season interesting as the scab would come off after every practice. It's my biggest, and favorite scar.
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