How to Catch a Baseball With Your Face

It was the summer of 1983. I arrived at Provo’s Timpanogos ballpark for a game against Provo High School. We got ready for the game in the typical fashion; we got our arms warm by lining up along the first base line and threw to a player opposite us. Jim Hoyal was on my left throwing to Ted Severens. These two are important because they both played a role in changing the way I look. As sometimes happens, Jim threw the ball over Ted’s head. Ted threw the ball back to Jim from the spot where he picked it up. You probably know that with increased distance comes decreased accuracy. The ball was off the mark; the mark being Jim’s glove. It did find a target though.

I saw a white flash coming toward me out of the corner of my eye. I ducked down and to the right, bringing my face into the exact trajectory of the baseball. The combined force of the baseball and the momentum of my attempt to avoid whatever was coming toward me put me squarely on my back. There was no particular pain. I only became aware that something was wrong when I saw Jim Hoyal standing over me with an expression of shock, pointing at my face and exclaiming, “Look at his nose! Oh my gosh, look at his nose!” That is one way to tell your nose is broken. Another way to tell your nose is broken is when you look down on your shirt to find that all of the blood in your body erupted out of your nostrils in one great explosion.

I never really minded being the center of attention but I was getting kind of annoyed because I was the only one who hadn’t yet seen the object of all the fuss. I went to my coach’s car and looked in the rear view mirror. Yep. It was broken alright. My nose was now effectively on the side of my face about half-way between where it used to be and my ear. Well, that is only partly true. It started and ended in the same place as before. Now there was just a big bend in the middle that conformed to the shape of a baseball.  At this point, I started to get concerned. Judging from my current appearance, you might find it hard to believe that I was once a very attractive. I was like a young Adonis. In terms of appearance, at least, it was as if my parents held back their best genes back from my siblings and concentrated them into that one sperm and that one egg. Like the unwise farmer that put all of those eggs into that one basket, I had gotten by so well on this one feature that I had failed to develop other aspects of myself. Now that I had the face of a radio host, what was I going to do?

The most immediate solution was to see what we could salvage of my face. My coach drove me to the hospital emergency room. I was cursing that teachers were also coaches.  The only thing that pays less than teaching high school is coaching high school sports. That fact was evident in my coach’s choice of automobiles. He drove a 1977 Gremlin. I don’t even know why we drove. We could have walked faster. If that wasn’t motivation to avoid teaching I don’t know what was. But now that my career as a model was out the window, I guess I would have to consider it as an option.

My hopes did not improve in the emergency room. The emergency room physician looked at me and took some x-rays and then said, “Well, that’s about all we can do for you.” Excuse me? That’s it? Turns out, he was calling in a plastic surgeon. That’s right, I have had plastic surgery. I don’t recommend it. When the plastic surgeon arrived, he put the x-rays on the screen. I saw the outline of my skull. The eye holes and teeth were where they were supposed to be but there were these little white specks that seemed to be floating around in the middle. The doctor pointed to them and with a matter-of-factness characteristic of doctors said “that’s your nose.” By then my parents had arrived. He asked my mom if she had a picture of me. This woman had fourteen children. If she wanted to carry other things in her purse, she wouldn’t be able to carry pictures of her kids. Thus, her answer was “no.” She did not have a picture of me. The doctor gave a nonchalant shrug, raised his eyebrows and said “Ok, I’ll just have to do my best.” Those are the words ringing in my ears every time I look in the mirror.

His next move was to administer anesthetic. I don’t even know if a general anesthetic was an option because he didn’t even ask. He just pulled trumpet-sized case, opened it and pulled out a trumpet-sized needle. He took out a bottle of clear liquid. It said “cocaine” on the label. This day was full of firsts. In reality, it might have been novacaine, but since I wasn’t drugged up yet, until I see this guys name in the paper for malpractice or someone comes forward to inform me that cocaine is not used in professional medicine, I will continue to believe that both I and Jerry Garcia have been high on cocaine.

Before the cocaine acted as a pain killer, however, I endured some of the greatest pain of my life. The doctor took this giant needle and inserted it just inside the bridge of my nose. He gave me another shot in the same place on the bridge on the other side of my nose. Then, he stuck the needle up each nostril and gave me shots in the sensitive tissue up there. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt. It hurt so bad that liquid washed over my eyeballs and threatened to spill over onto my cheek. These, would-be tears welled up to the edge of my eye lid. As a fifteen year old with a full-blown ego, I mustered up every ounce of will power to subdue that liquid. I came off conquerer and can say with pride that I did not cry.

Once I was good and numb, he went to work. Having never been to medical school, I can’t say exactly what they do there. I am pretty sure that it is a racket though. After eight years of medical school all this guy did was use his thumbs! Really, isn’t there some kind of sophisticated technique that he could use to make me look normal again? His entire technique included pressing his thumbs against the side of my nose, put his legs against the wall and PUSH. The sound was bone crunching, literally. Whatever sound you associate with bone moving against bone: crack or crunch doesn’t quite cut it. It was so overwhelming for my Dad that he had to leave the room. Me? I was fine. I felt really good.

When he was finished, it was time to set the bone(s). How do you do that for a nose? A cast doesn’t really cut it. What would you do, cover your face in plaster? Not practical. So here’s what happens.  Some orderly gets on the hospital intercom and says “please bring all of the gauze in the hospital to the emergency room.” Then, they call the nearest hospital and ask them for all of their gauze. Once they have received a sufficient amount of gauze, they proceed to put it all up your nasal cavities. Have you ever wondered what happened to all of the ram rods used to pack gun powder into old muskets? Sure there are some in museums but most of them are kept in hospitals to stuff gauze up the nostrils of unwitting patients with broken noses. When they are done doing that, they use the only piece of gauze they have left under your nose and send you on your way.

The purpose for taping the gauze under the nose is to counter the effect of gravity. Despite the fact that I broke my nose, other body systems continue to function as they always have. Mucus production does not go on holiday. The laws of physics don’t go on break either. Gravity is still in effect. The problem is that with all of that gauze up there, I could no longer jam my finger up there to fish out the offending bugger.

So, there I was nostrils stuffed with gauze and a piece of gauze taped under my nose. If that wasn’t bad enough, the next day I had two black eyes! If the loss of blood and the nose smeared to the side of your face weren’t good enough clues that your nose is broken, then there is always the two black eyes to give it away. I don’t know which was worse, the way I looked before the doctor went to work or the way I looked after. Needless to say, I had no plans to go anywhere until I went to get my nose unpacked.

My coach had other plans though. The next thing I know, he is standing there at my front door asking me when I would be coming back. Since my appearance wasn’t enough to answer his question, I had to tell him that I wasn’t going anywhere for two weeks. “Two weeks!” he said, “this is the middle of our season and we have some of our most important games coming up.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” I said. Then he got a strange look in his eye. I thought maybe it was gas, but when he left and came back an hour later, I realized that it was an idea that he had, not gas.

He presented me with a baseball batting helmet with a football facemask attached to it. This was before girl’s softball began putting facemasks on their batting helmets. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked incredulously. “wear it,” he said. “To do what?” I asked, even more incredulous. “To play baseball,” he answered. Ok, but what am I going to wear out at shortstop?” I querried. “I’m kind of paranoid about another baseball flying up into my face.”

“That is for playing shortsop,” he said.

As vain as I was, I must have really loved baseball or really been a push-over because there I was at the next game out at short-stop, looking like a line-backer. There were people in the stands asking “why is that guy out there with a football helmet on? When I came in from the field, took the helmet off and they saw my face, they were like “whoa, put that thing back on Dick Butkis.” I really, really must have loved baseball because I played every game for the entire two weak period of “healing.”

Finally the day came to have the dual obstructions removed from my nostrils. You know how magicians pull an unending stream of scarves out of their magic hat? Well, it seemed like the doctor pulled out an unending stream of gauze out of my magic nostrils. Only what went in white was now lime green. After what seemed like an eternity, his trays were full of gauze and my nostrils were full of air. Air! Wonderful air. It was coursing up and down my nasal cavity freely. Or so I thought. Oxygen is much more benign and much less expensive that cocaine, but I swear I was so high, that I didn’t notice until sitting in the car on the way home that I wasn’t getting any air through my right nostril. I waited until we got home because I didn’t want to worry my Mom. As soon as we got home, though, I made a b-line for the bathroom to figure out what was going on. When I got there though, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to stick my finger up there for fear I might do some kind of damage, so I did the only thing I could think of, and that was snort. As soon the air was channeled up the narrow passage, I felt something give. My eyes went wide with surprise and shock. I felt something in the back of my throat!  As I slowly opened my mouth, I saw a piece of gauze dangling there at the back of my throat! Once again, I was mystified as to what to do about this. I had no medical training on the extraction of gauze from certain bodily cavities! Having witnessed the sophistication of my plastic surgeon though, I figured I could do at least as well as him. So, I put my fingers in my mouth and with my thumb and index finger, pulled out a six-inch piece of gauze.