‘Testa dura’

It’s been 10 days since I tripped over my own feet trying to pick up a loose ball on the pickleball court. The bump on my forehead’s still a bit sore and my shiner’s more lavender than purple but not nearly as bad as it was – or could have been.

The pickler gods were watching over me. Or maybe I’m just very lucky.

Talk about March coming in like a lion.

It’s not often you witness someone doing a face-plant into a hard (read: concrete) tennis court, not the elegant grass of Wimbledon or forgiving clay of the French Open.

Nope, I landed hard and fast on my head, which broke my fall instead of, say, my hand, shoulder or hip. Don’t try this at home or away.

Eyewitnesses say my limp body looked like a crash test dummy used at a NHTSA vehicle testing lab.

(Musical aside: Now I know why the ‘90s band Crash Test Dummies was a one-hit wonder. They named themselves after something that’s only good for a single use. All I can say is, “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm.” Never heard of it, have you?)

My testa dura (that means “hard head” in Italian) slammed into the ground and snapped back with such force that I remember thinking, “Whoa, that must be what it feels like to be a sacked NFL quarterback. Or, maybe I’m dead?”

Dazed and confused but still conscious, I unfolded my body from its fetal position and sat upright on the court wondering what had just happened. Then I looked down and saw something dripping from my head. I thought it was sweat. It wasn’t.

“Man, you’re bleedin’,” said my snowbird pal/coach Joe from Pennsylvania.

Yeah, no kidding, man.

Before fleeing the scene, Coach Joe left a giant Band-Aid in my pickleball bag that I’ll forever cherish. (Half of that sentence is true.)

Our friend Linda, who was visiting from Melbourne Beach and is (thankfully) a mother and grandmother to many children, allowed me to lean on her as I used a Detroit Tigers towel to put pressure on the cut. She also sopped up my blood from the scene of the crime like that Cambodian woman who works for the mob in Fox’s ”The Cleaning Lady.”

Way above and beyond for any houseguest.

Another pickler pal, Cathy, our downstairs neighbor and fellow Michigander, grabbed some ice to help control the swelling.

“Center Court Trauma Team” in the house! Luckily, I didn’t pass out or vomit – both signs of a possible concussion.

All I recall is mumbling something about how it was a good thing Rebecca wasn’t there because she can’t stand the sight of blood. At that moment, I heard a tiny voice from behind the fence: “Hey, what’s going on?”

It was the Queen of Squeam herself, who had just returned from church, but not because it was the first day of Lent. This particular March 2^nd had marked 20 years since the passing of her late partner, Sharon, who was thin, athletic and agile. She would not have tripped over her own feet on a pickleball court. Ever.

“Did you pray for me?” I asked.

“Yes, but apparently not enough,” said my beloved.

The bleeding subsided, and I managed to pick myself up and walk to the car. We drove back to our condo.

I felt OK and for an hour or so, I iced my boo boo off and on for the recommended 20 minutes. There was no reason we couldn’t keep our plans to visit Coquina Beach market and then have lunch at Longboat Key’s Dry Dock Waterfront Grill, one of my favorite places.

But by mid-afternoon, I still had quite a headache, and the cut on my forehead started to bleed again. A market vendor selling monogrammed dog bandanas gave me a Band-Aid.

We dropped off Linda, who graciously watched Maddie, and then we headed to an urgent care facility off island. The young woman at MD Now Urgent Care in Bradenton took one look at me and said, “We don’t do head injuries, so you’ll need to go to the hospital.” Bye, Felicia.

At least I can say that now we also know where a hospital is, along with a dentist and retinal specialist after last year’s teeth and eye challenges.

Blake Medical Center in Bradenton was just a few minutes away. It was 5:30 p.m. on a weekday in southwest Florida, but we made it in record time.

They took me right away to the back of the ER where we waited, masked, with two other patients amid chairs littered with fast-food trash and an empty urine sample cup. Double ick.

Nurse Jessica was nice enough but tripped me up (see what I did there?) by asking why I take the prescription meds I take, not what I take. Say that three times fast.

Then we met a physician’s assistant named Troy. What are the odds of that, us being from Troy, Mich., and all? It gets better.

“Are you a Lions fan?” he asked before anything else, such as why I’m in this filthy dirty ER on my vacation.

“Is it that obvious?” I responded.

We bonded like siblings.

What are the odds that this Louisiana native would be a transplanted Detroit Lions fan who attended Michigan State University and whose ex-wife and kids live in Sault St. Marie, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula? Remarkable.

PA Troy ordered a CT (computed tomography) scan of the head to make sure I didn’t have a brain bleed or some other serious injury. Then he put two drops of Krazy glue-like stuff on my cut in lieu of stitches.

“Try not to wrinkle,” he said. Easy for you to say, sport.

The fact that I take a low-dose aspirin daily to prevent a stroke caused me to bleed more than usual. Funny how you forget those things when you’re kissing the pavement wondering if this is how you’re gonna meet your maker.

We were out of there by 8:30 p.m., and I’ve got to admit, everyone was professional and efficient. Plus, despite being overworked and understaffed, they were nice to each other.

“We survived another day,” one nurse said to a colleague finishing up his shift. “You have a good night.”

PA Troy called me back for the CT scan results (all good!) and told me to stop taking aspirin for a couple of days.

“You feel better, have a good vacation, and sorry about that waiting room. We need more help,” he said.

Thanks to Troy and everyone else who took care of me that day. You were all great.

Let’s hope March goes out like a lamb because this Lion’s fan can’t take much more unnecessary roughness.