Kickball

My life has been full of embarrassment, but there was one event in my history that stands out as a tragic humiliation.
Flashback to early sixth grade, the sun is softly burning in the noon sky as a gentle breeze shakes the pines. I feel the mild pain of a stomachache, yet I decide the day is too beautiful to waste lingering inside. As we begin to play a game of kickball, I eagerly await my turn to pitch.
After an eternity, I step up to the mound. Joyfully flaunting my talents, I rear back and unleash a curve flying towards the plate. The ball is hit square
and it comes back at me with equal force. A sudden impact into my stomach jars something loose, for the next thing I know, the seat of my pants is full of dripping, rancid filth.
The filth incident was horrible, but there was insult added to injury. First, the nurse had to clean me up, then she was to call my parents. The trouble was, my parents were nowhere to be found. Because of that, I had to sit in the nurse’s station until my parents could be found, or four hours.
Ever since that day, I’ve been a different person. I attribute that incident to making me who I am today. Sure, I heard about that incident every day until I moved away, but my skin grew four inches thicker that day.