|
|
 |
|
|
 Why, it's baby Andy--and without any visible scars yet! A few moments later, he spoke his first word: PASTA! |
THE SAGA OF ANDY MURCIA'S TIRED OLD CARCASS
Accident-prone Andy gives
us reason to avoid mirrors
By ANDY MURCIA
of TheColumnists.com
In that television program “This Old House,” before they start to work rehabilitating the dump, they like to tell us some of the history of the place. For example: There were 14 children raised here, Granny took her last breath here, Billy learned how to ride a bike here!
That approach intrigued me and got me to thinking about my old body and all of its history. In my faith, it’s said that your body is like a temple–like maybe a house, too? We can argue that point, I guess, but I say it's close enough for me to segue into this column, right?
Let me take you way back as I begin this story of my body. I've been told that around age four I used to go into convulsions. I’d froth at the mouth, and usually wake up in a bath full of cool water. Mostly happened at the beach for some unknown reason.
About age six, I was playing around, chasing my older brother Tommy with a broomstick. As we ran through the kitchen my broom got caught in the white globe light fixture that was hung by sturdy chains because it was so heavy. I last remember yanking on the broom to free it up and as I looked up the white glass globe was falling and smacked me on the forehead.
 Toddler Andy seems to be saying, "Sock it to me, Life. I'm armed and ready!" |
 A defiant Andy, posing with his Mom and sister, looked reasonably normal before being hit by various vehicles and flying objects thrown by punks. |
Result: I had a concussion, received numerous stitches in my forehead and have been scared to death of that light fixture ever since.
One night in Brooklyn, when I was seven, I had just bought some ice cream from The Good Humor truck when a kid tried to mug me and take it from me. He grabbed me by my testicles and, were it not for my mother coming to my rescue and belting the punk, he might have killed me--or at least robbed me of my manhood. Result: I've been wary of guys who try to grab my testicles ever since.
At age eight I was coming out of the movie in Long Island, N.Y., with my skinny buddy. He said, "Let's run across Farmers Boulevard right here!" Chubby me tried to follow but stopped short when I realized that I couldn’t make it without getting hit by a car. I stopped in time to spare my life, but my nose was already in the traffic lane and was struck by a side mirror on a car speeding by. The folks from the movie theatre tied me to a chair and turned me upside down trying to stop the bleeding until the ambulance came. My father met us at the hospital where I was diagnosed with a broken nose and lacerations that needed to be stitched up. Pop wouldn’t let the intern on duty in emergency fix my nose or stitch me up. No, he made them wake up the best doc to do the job. Little did he know that my nose would be broken several more times when I took up boxing for fun.
At age nine I was pushed to the ground by an elementary school coach named Mr. Wilson. My left wrist bone was broken out of the skin over my hand. I remember my father chasing the coach, clutching his blackjack in his coat pocket, ready to give the coach a taste of his own medicine. But the coach ran it and found sanctuary in the principal’s office.
At age 14 I was driving a motor scooter on Thanksgiving Day and as I crossed busy South Dixie Highway in North Miami, Florida, a car ran the red light and hit me broadside–knocking me flying. I landed on my back and slid down the highway 196 feet. I had road burns to my back, skull, arms, and legs. The ambulance took me to North Shore Hospital where they said I had a brain concussion, several broken vertebrae and various lacerations and contusions. My mom spirited me out of the hospital before they would release me.
At age 15 and 16 I was trying to become a boxer and got into the local Golden Gloves. I really didn’t know much about defense and took too many punches to my head/ That nose of mine got cracked more than once. Thank God I could punch, which stopped the other kids from punching me silly. I had a good chin, but I must have thought I was like Rocky Marciano, taking a few punches just to get enough of mine in for the win. Better I should have learned how to really box! I also had a knack for getting into too many street fights as a boy and lost most of them–which is one of the reasons I took up boxing in the first place.
At 17 I was given a medical discharge out of the U.S. Navy for having a bum back. My father had signed me in and told me I’d see the world and have a lot of fun. I saw the Great Lakes Naval Academy, and I’m still waiting for the fun!
At 18 I was walking home from my part-time job, going down a dark residential street. I was eating a chicken leg. Last thing I remember was flying through the air and landing on some guy’s lawn. Seems a car had drifted to the right and hit me. I got up but was in shock and ran the rest of the way home. The guy who hit me followed and told my parents what he had done by accident. They took me to the hospital and I learned I had another back injury as well as a broken arm. I have no idea as to what injury, if any, the chicken leg I was eating may have suffered.
At 19 my father got me a job in a ghetto liquor store. He knew the owner and I was a big kid who looked older. I was the victim of armed robbers on two occasions. Guns were pointed at me and demands were made for “all the money.” Needless to say, one’s heart gets quite a jolt when bad ass looking guys with shades on and caps pulled down try to scare the be-Jesus out of you.
At 20 my girlfriend and I were driving in my Chevrolet Corvair. Those cars had rear tires that folded in if you went around a turn too fast. On this sunny day I guess I was going too fast around a circular road turn and the tire collapsed and we flipped over and over, rolling down the steep embankment and coming to rest with the tires up in the air and the roof on the ground! Even though this was before seatbelts, neither of us seemed to be seriously injured. However, we did hit our heads pretty good. Shortly after that accident her parents wisely made her break up with me.
By the time I was 35 I was diagnosed with Bells Palsy in my face. The entire right side of my face just drooped down, my right eye, right side of my lips and smile all just dropped! I thought I was having a stroke. The doctor said there is really no cure for it, except time. Eventually, he told me, most people get most of their face back to normal. Well, I didn’t. I got back about 75 percent. Gone forever is my beautiful right big brown eye that won’t fully open now as well as my sexy smile.
|
as if to say, "Aw, no! What now? A Mack truck at last!" |
 |
My years as a Chicago cop listed me as “injured on duty” too many times to list here. Everything from being hit with hunks of bike path tar in the neck during riots, to hitting my head on the corner of a building while chasing an armed robber. At the Democratic National Convention in 1968, I got hit with an assortment of items. From rubber balls with spikes sticking out of them, hockers, spit from the mouths of those lovely hippie kids, and the plastic baggies full of crap and urine thrown from the windows of the Hilton Hotel. The Weatherman gang, along with youths on drugs, hit me with just about anything they could throw.
As a sergeant I slipped on loose gravel
and conked my head on the sharp corner of a building. Another
concussion, lacerations and a very injured knee–that to
this day is still not working totally right. I was in all too
many fights with all those who resisted arrest, suffering numerous
head and body injuries over those many years.
I’ll spare you the appendix surgery, the heart attack, and
the five or six more car accidents where I was injured to some
significant extent and the old body took a lot more punishment.
I guess none of us go through life without getting clobbered here or there by something or someone. It sure is remarkable that we live as long as we do once we get to thinking about all the hard knocks we took over the years of our lives. I mean, no wonder when we finally croak everyone says, “may he rest in peace.”
If I had life to do all over again, I’d never leave the house! Think of all the injuries I could have avoided. Except for the broomstick–glass globe injury, I’d be home free!
When I look at myself in photographs as a baby boy and then look at myself in the mirror today, I think–wow, what the hell happened to you? So, I made the above list which is, in fact, incomplete. You might say I was hit by everything except the proverbial “Mack truck” or so it seems. But there’s one thing you can take to the bank and that is I swear I never had any kind of cosmetic surgery whatsoever!
Lastly, I would like to know where the hell is Bob Viela! I mean I could use a complete rehab of this old body. Just like he does to that house, don’t you think? Or do you think I’m perfect just as I am? Before you laugh, go look in the mirror and soon you will be listing all that happened to you.
My only reason for writing this column was to make us all not feel too badly about how our looks change as we get older. Those of us over 60 have been through a lot in life, and as they say we’re still this side of the lawn. Life can still have plenty of happy times, so just smile and do as I do: Stay the hell away from mirrors! You won't like what you see and, hell, that mirror might come off the wall and land on your foot!
©2007 by Andy Murcia. The photos are the property of the
author. All rights reserved.
This column first posted July 30, 2007.
You
can comment on this column online. Please address your message
to either "The Editors" or Andy Murcia. To send an
email, click here and don't forget to mention Andy's name: talkback@thecolumnists.com
|
|
|
Archives |
|
|