Many, many years later it is has become clear that I improperly handled the aftermath of what seemed like a serious situation at the time.
After getting jumped, robbed of my textbooks and thoroughly thrashed by a bunch of hoodlums while on my way to fourth grade, and then limping home, I was asked by my father, "What the hell happened to you?" I should have answered:
Don't worry, I have a different kind of toughness.
To which I'm pretty sure he would have replied: "Well, you're bleeding all over the linoleum."
I find it ironic that the same Wild fans who used to get so excited whenever Derek Boogaard stepped on the ice that they'd lose control of their bodily functions now see themselves as guardians of all that is holy and good about hockey.