Oct. 15, 1968. A Tuesday.

I'll never forget that day. And I have this scar to remember it by.
It was a typical fall afternoon in Connecticut. The temperature was low enough that we had on longsleeves, but we didn't need coats or anything drastic. Mom had left for work at 5, same as every week day. Dad didn't get home until around six; that's when dinner was. I guess my sisters Karen and Gretchen were inside finishing it up, per Mom's instructions. In the meantime, the boys were out front playing football.

We would play football in our front yard. It was about 30 yards long and about 10 yards wide. That's a pretty small field if you got alot of guys playing but there were probably only six of us (three on a side). So I'm thinking it was probably me, maybe wake, definitely Billy Keenan, probably Joe Keenan, maybe Mark and Frank Keenan. I was 9 years old, Billy was 8. Joe would've been 11, Mark 13 and Frank 14. Wake would have been 15. Because Billy and I were playing, this was a two-hand touch football game.
My team kicked off. The ball was sailing toward the trees at the goal line. I was charging down the yard to make a play on the ball. Billy's job was to block me. Block me he did. Sort of. I was a bit taller than Billy then. I was running full speed when he stepped in front of me. How we meshed exactly, I'm not sure. But suddenly I heard my brain hit my skull when I stopped dead. Then he was howling, and I saw his face covered with blood. I tried my best to comfort him and get him to stop crying as the older boys assessed the situation, began assigning blame and scrambling for cover. Someone pointed out to me that I was also bleeding and the situation got drastically more intense. Gretchen probably came out of the house. She would have been 17, I guess. More or less in charge of us kids. Billy headed home with some form of bandage over his left eye, his brothers shepherding him across the middle. That's what we called the area between our houses.
It was decided that I needed medical attention. For some reason, Austin, our oldest brother was home that afternoon. His new Mercury Cougar was going to be my transport. It was maroon with a black vinyl top, red interior. I remember him admonishing me not to get blood anywhere.
Off we went to Dr. Dwyer's office in the center of town. His office was in one part of his house. A very pleasant man, he informed those in charge of me that, although he had stemmed the bleeding, I probably should get stitches.
I'm told when we got back to the house, my father was a little upset, because dinner wasn't ready yet. And then even more so to learn that our evening was going to be spent on a trip to Hartford Hospital, about 20 miles away.
The doctor there went to great lengths to insure that my scar (pictured above) did not protrude. He tied eight individual knots instead of using a chain stitch approach.
"This way, when he is older and shaves, he won't knick himself every time."
I appreciate that every time I shave.
Billy wound up with 15 stitches over his eye. He said the doctor told him it was cut right over the top of his whole eye and he (the doctor) was able to see behind it.

But you what to know the worst part about this event? Back then, Heidi and I had an eight thirty bedtime. Except one night a week we were allowed to stay up until nine. We used that night to watch Julia. Julia aired on Tuesday nights on NBC, right after The Mod Squad, which was on ABC. Heidi was mad, because she had to go to the hospital with us and missed the show.