Playing With Pain


My son comes home from playing basketball at L.A. Fitness with what looks like blood all over his white T-shirt.

“Is that blood on your shirt?” I ask him.

“Yeah. A guy followed through on his shot and smacked me in the face.”

“So your nose was bleeding?”

“Yeah. I wiped it on my shirt.”

“That’s awesome.”

“I know. It’s sick.”

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