I was shot down by a fifth ball, which struck me squarely in the face, and passed out.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
I was a roving guard on the Lowell Hebrew Community Center's girls' basketball team all through high school. My specialty was stealing the ball, but my only shot was a lay-up.
I was short with my fastball and breaking ball.
My greatest moment as a jock occurred when I was 14 and playing punch ball in front of my house on Albemarle Road near East 17th Street in Brooklyn. I ran back, back for a ball, and it fell in my hands. I didn't even see it. Everyone congratulated me on the catch, and I never told them how it really happened.
I was 11 years old and have the same curveball I have now. So I was literally striking everybody out. I always threw hard, and I was bigger than all the kids, so I would throw hard and throw that curveball, and no one could hit me.
I was playing baseball, and I tripped over first base - I'm very clumsy - and I fell and broke my wrist. That was pretty painful.
Where the ball went was up to heaven. Sometimes I threw the ball clean up into the stands.
A ball had passed between my body and the right arm which supported him, cutting through the sleeve and passing through his chest from shoulder to shoulder. There was no more to be done for him and I left him to his rest. I have never mended that hole in my sleeve.
I got a couple of front teeth knocked out during a football match when I was hit by a flying elbow.
I could hit the damn ball. No matter who was throwing. Or where the ball was. I left the bench swinging. I didn't get many walks.
There was a line call that didn't look so great. I went ballistic. Called the umpire a jerk. Whacked a ball into the stands. Then smacked a soda can with my racket, and got soda all over the King of Sweden, who was sitting in the front row.