It must be something in our DNA some little genetic tic floating around that makes us this way. Call it the “stupid” gene. All Thompson men seem to have it, and definitely so in our wing of the family tree.
It makes us desperate to top each other with the most exotic, or as my wife says, most absurd injury. The Thompson men are on an epic quest, and it has started heating up lately.
In the spring I had a surfing accident — a fin on my board stabbed me in the thigh, punching clean through my wetsuit and just missing my femoral artery. While I’m running again, I’m still not fully healed. I set the bar pretty high for the year with my 150 stitches.
My brother and father, though, appear to be shopping for a topper.
My brother, who has been collecting and refurbishing old vintage motorcycles, has started racing them. And not just on any old track, but on off-road courses mired in mud, rolling hills and tree roots that reach up out of the ground trying to snag an errant tire.
I may have been impaled by a fiberglass fin, but he could be impaled by a tree, run over by his bike or swallowed by a sink hole. That has full-body cast and spleen-replacement surgery written all over it.
Not to be outdone by his two sons, my dad went looking for a real scorcher when it comes to injury possibilities. He retired a little while back and has the time to put into such an effort. Retirement should be outlawed because it just lets bored people think up crazy ways to permanently maim themselves.
What’s my dad doing to try and top us? He’s taken up gator hunting. Yes, gator hunting, as in alligators, those reptiles who sport lots of teeth, bad dispositions and no scruples whatsoever about making a meal out of a human being.
He called me a few months back to announce this new endeavor. There was a degree of excitement in his voice, but also a lot of trepidation the kind of voice you might have if you told your family, “Um, I think I just sold my soul to the devil for a bushel of boiled shrimp and a case of beer. Do you think that’ll hold up in a court of law?”
It should be known that my father is not a hunter. He’s too mild-mannered and has a hard time yelling at his dogs, even if they’ve just burned down the shed. He has a Ph.D. in physics and looks like Jimmy Buffet. While his alligator-hunting buddies might dress head-to-toe in camouflage, my dad would likely go out in one of his Hawaiian-print shirts and sport sandals.
But when a couple of friends — real hunters — suggested he apply for a state gator harvest permit and come along with them, I guess the temptation was too much to resist. So off he went for adventure and gator tail.
Their first all-night expedition was fruitless, aside from learning that gators are actually smarter than humans, and can steal bait while alluding capture. I think the gators also broke into their car and took the stereo while they were out on the lake.
The next trip was much more successful. I think he said they bagged a 250-pounder, but I’m not sure. I couldn’t really hear him over the sound of my jaw dropping out of my mouth. I do know he said it was 10 feet — long as long as their boat — and was a suspect in the snatching of four dogs around that Tampa lake. Mind you, these were no small dogs.
They wrestled with the beast for hours as he thrashed and even went under the boat.
“Can’t you get … I don’t know … hurt doing that?” I asked.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said,
Right then and there I knew my brother and I had some tough competition. And it was also time for us to go back to the drawing board.