When I was a mere boy in 6th grade, we could join a Pop-Warner football team and I thought this would be a great start to my future career in the NFL, too bad a traumatic life event was about to unfold. All was good, my buddies were on the roster, smack talk was already going on and in my mind the season would be filled with highlights of my talent. Bad news hit when I learned we had to have a physical. “Physical?” I asked my older brother Gump, “Yep, they grab your balls, make you turn your head and cough,” says he. “Why they wanna grab my balls?” says me. “I dunno,” was his well-educated response. Now I’m nervous, real nervous, all kinds of thoughts run through my brainpan. What if I have to be naked in front of all the other kids? What about the guy doing the probing? What if he chuckles prior to? I almost drive myself insane with these thoughts of inadequacy and there’s no way I’m going to talk about my FEELINGS to my older brothers, right, like that would help.

The scheduled day comes for the physical, we are all in the gym lined up wearing our little tighty-whities waiting for the humiliation to begin. I slide my way to the back of the line so I can see how this operates. Open mouth examination, check; touch your toes for scoliosis examination, check; neck feel examination, check. Ok, not so bad. Hmmm, what’s going on in the area with the guy sitting on a chair behind a 1 foot high curtain? Are you kidding me??? “Eeeee,” I scream in my head as I see a fellow cow-to-slaughter boy drop his drawers with a snake belly white arse exposed.

“Hold on, wait a minute, did I just see a glimpse of hair in the unmentionable area? No flippin’ way,” I think to myself, “hair, down there??” Oh boy, I’m in trouble now, all I’ve got is fuzz like a baby’s bottom and manhood that only a possum could be proud of, “I’m a goner,” I say to myself. I’m next to go meet Mr. Prober. “All right, boy, drop your drawers,” he says. Nothing but shame is felt as I expose myself. Touch, touch, feel, feel, then more touch, touch, feel, feel. Something is not right because this guy is spending waaayy too much time probing my squirrel size nuts. “Hmmm,” Mr. Cucumber finger says. “Stay here, I’ve got to get the other doctors,” and so he does… Six hands poke and feel around. A consensus among them was reached. “We think you have a hernia,” the doc said. At that moment, my Pro Football debut was put on hold.

A hernia, according to Websters vast knowledge, is the protrusion of an organ through the wall that it is normally contained by; generally caused by muscular strain, injury, etc. OK, that’s fine…but why would a sixth grader be getting a hernia in the first place? Hmmm, maybe the thirty times I tried to unmount my older brother Gump as he held my arms down to the ground with his knees so he could use both hands (knuckles), to pound my breastplate..? Maybe making wood? Picking rocks? Making wood? Picking rocks? Yeah, I know that was redundant since it seemed like those jobs were a never ending occurrence. Sorry I got a little off track, so back to the memories that torment me.

I walked out of the gym with my head hung low, not really worried that there was something wrong with me, but that now, everyone in the world knew there was something wrong with my squirrel nuts. I still had no idea what a hernia was in the first place.

“A hernia?” my mom asked. “Show me where it is.” Absolutely, definitely, no one was going to peek or probe my genitalia for a while. Surgery was scheduled over Thanksgiving break so I had a couple of months of torment from my brothers and friends. I still didn’t know what a hernia was, but it had to do with your balls and that was bad enough. Brother Gump was very informative, as well he should be. A yearly TV sized box of porn magazines my dad got from his brother gave him a plethora of information that Gump absorbed like a sponge.

With his vast knowledge, I went to him for advice on what actually happens during a hernia surgery. “They’re going to cut off one of your balls,” then he thought some more and in his all-knowing manner added, “get another hernia and you will be nutless,” “One-ball Bill, One-ball Bill,” he sympathized/heckled. Then he told his friends, who told their friends, etc. Ohhhh, the shame, life was hell. I’m pretty sure the local radio station had Gump on as a special guest to detail his feelings about having a brother with one ball. Every place I went, people would hold up their right index finger…normally that would mean, ‘You’re number one’, but not so in my case… Confession time, I actually made the radio and number one part up but I’m sure there were many nightmares like this.

Fast-forward a couple months and I’m getting prepped for surgery. Pretty nurse comes in with shaving gel and a disposable razor. “Ready for your shave?” she said. Now I’m in a pickle, and blood rushes to my head. If I say I don’t need a shave, she knows I have squirrel nuts and no hair. If I go ahead with the shave, there wouldn’t be enough hair to clog the razor. “I’m ok. I already shaved at home,” was my reply. She smiled politely and left me to wallow in my own shame.

Surgery is performed and everything goes as planned. My parents were there to be with me after the castration. A few hours go by and the odds were good I would live, so they decided to go home.

Finally… I am alone in my room. Nervous again, but curious. I slide my right hand under the sheets and start feeling around. One..I count, whew;…Two..I count,??? Yaaaayyy, I celebrate with myself.

“Hold on.” I panicked, “did I have 3 to begin with and didn’t notice? Did the doctor do the surgery right?” Eventually the doctor came in and I summoned up the balls (heehee, get it?), to ask him questions. I still don’t know why he was smiling so much as he answered my inquiry. Elation is a good word to describe the feeling one gets when they find out a nut wasn’t cut off. Revenge is a good word to describe the plan I hatched to get back at brother Gump. I spent two nights in the hospital, then home for a day and back to school on Monday.

Monday, I’m at school and the rat-fink kid named Doug Doleman shouts out at recess, “One-ball Bill, One-ball Bill.” Off go my gloves and I doink the kid in the head, he hits me back and we end up rolling on the ground kicking and scratching.

Thankfully, my dad was in the cafeteria at school and was keeping an eye on me. He sure was moving quick as he lifted me off Doug and gave me a cuff upside the head. “You want to rip out your stitches?” he said. I ended up staying in for recess three days because of that brawl.

Having surgery back then created interesting conversation and my mom let everyone know my whole state of affairs. “Hey Carol, take a look at Billies nut scar,” is what I heard, although she probably just said scar. I then had to drop my pants, push the underwear down and show the scar while the neighbor ladies leaned in to get a good look.

I suppressed that terrible time in my life for quite a while but some type of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder event occurred to refresh my memory. It probably wasn’t too smart on my part to write about it since I’m sure therapy is right around the corner.