King of Coincidence

Of all the things that have been a coincidence, there is probably none more than the following that happens to me. 1) On eight-day intervals, something unlucky happens to me. 2) On four-month intervals, something unlucky also happens to me. 3) On Mondays, something lucky happens to me. Mix any of the preceding together, and you get mega mayhem. Mix the first two together (which happens every two and two-thirds years) and someone will probably get injured. Before I start my explanation for that, I have to tell you my first story.
In my original SOS, I get amnesia, and drown in a pool four feet deep when I was just under two years old. It is definitely a coincidence that the following happened: It started on a perfect summer day, at baseball practice. I was taking my warm-ups in left field. It sounded simple; Sam Emblidge threw the ball to me, I threw it to him, he threw it to Hayden, Hayden threw it back, and everything repeated. This day happened to be the one at my four-month and eight-day intervals, so I was scared out of my wits. But, nothing odd happened. Finally, coach Nick called us in. He told us all our positions for practice. Then he started hitting balls. On a screaming grounder that had raced past Tommy, our third baseman, I ran after the ball. I missed it and ran into the fence.

No big deal. I just shook it off. That had happened to me many times. Right after that, he hit a low line drive just to my right. I ran after it, and dove but somehow my glove fell off of my hand! What could I do? While I was still in the air, I somehow managed to dodge the flying ball, but I wasn't over yet. I hit the ground hard, and I got the wind knocked out of me as I went skidding along the grass. I rammed into the fence and that was how I stopped.

Yes, I was the "crash-test dummy" for the team. I'd been hit by 10 pitches all for the team. I'd gotten popped five times, just for the team. I'd taken 23 hard dives into second base, just for the team. So after taking that hit, I should have felt absolutely normal. But something still stung. The pinky finger on my right hand, to be exact. That stinging is why I had to go to the hospital the following day and get and x-ray. The test looked like I was all fine, but the doctor said that I'd broken the pinky finger on my right hand.

Exactly four months after the day, I was playing fall ball. Everything was going fine. Garrett, our leadoff hitter, stepped into the batter's box for the first pitch of the game. "Play ball," the ump said, and the game was officially underway. Garrett struck out on five pitches. I took my warm up swings and stepped into the righty's batter's box to face Harrison Brewer, the lefty from my soccer team. The first pitch was high and I laid off. "Ball one," the ump. The second pitch was right down the middle. I took a mighty, home run swing and just barely made contact. Well, made contact is the wrong word. The ball hit off the handle of my bat and, in a blur, bounced off my helmet and hit me in the privates. I was wearing a cup, but that only dampened the impact. I blacked out for the first time since I was two, and a wail of pain came out of my mouth as I fell to the ground.

When I woke up, I spat the dirt out of my mouth. Everyone was helping me. "I wish I had called, 'S.O.S.'," I said. Everyone except me laughed. I got back in the box and just spat everything out of my mouth and later, walked. In that "coincidental" game, by the way, I went 1-for-3 with a walk, two Ks(strikeouts), and a triple. So I learned a big lesson: even the worst of S.O.S.s are just purely coincidental.