On my 9th birthday, my mother bought me a baseball bat that was so large, Babe Ruth could not’ve swung it. We went outside and I told my brother to pitch me a ball. Not knowing my younger brother was standing behind me I swung the bat as hard as I could. I missed the ball, but, with a hard follow through, hit Kenny in the temple.
I turned around to see him lying on the ground with a gash in his forehead with what looked like a piece of steak hanging out of the cut. I was certain I had killed him and that piece of steak was his brain. I ran to my room and cried like a baby, and I could not be consoled. Five hours later , Kenny came into my room and showed me his stitches. That was my worst birthday ever.