A twinge of anxiety leapt to my brain as I picked up the ringing phone and realized the call was coming from our 13 year old baby sitter. She was in the park behind our house with our children, not 200 yards from our back door.

“Hi Molly what’s up?” My anxiety grew when I heard those awful words “Walker’s had an accident.”

“What happened, is he ok?”

“He fell.”

“Is he ok?”

“Not exactly.”

Full blown panic now, but I calmly run down the list of emergency question to assess the situation and determine the proper response.

“Did he hit his head? Is he bleeding? Did he break something?”

“No. Not exactly. He just fell off the red thing in a bad place.”

“I’ll be right there.” I sprint out the door.

Off the red thing? What red thing? I rack my brain trying to picture the red thing; I can’t picture the red thing. I’m imaging he’s fallen on a jagged metal red thing and now has a huge gash in his head spurting blood all over the playground. And I’m also thinking our babysitter needs some lessons in effectively describing situations.

In seconds I crest the small hill that separates our backyard and the playground.

There’s Molly holding my daughter, there’s my neighbor standing next to her, and there is my son, standing alone, under the swings, a bit hunched over. He’s ashen, his face in a contorted grimace, big crocodile tears in his eyes, and he looks as if has seen a ghost or made the most awful discovery that will doom mankind forever.

I run through the gate. Go to my son. “You ok buddy, what happened?”

Breathless sobs.

My neighbor Bill saunters over, holding his two daughters. Bill sees an opportunity here to be a part of a classic father son moment that he will never get to have with his on brood.

“I think he just took a good shot to the jewels” says Bill.

What?

“You know, balance beam, nuts, racked.”

Ohhhhh, it all makes sense. My son has just discovered his testicles, and not in a good way. He has felt the pain that only men can know. I do my best to explain to him what has just happened, using proper medical terms and several of the more descriptive slang phrases commonly used when only males are present.

And my babysitter’s inability to accurately describe the situation also makes sense. She’s in eighth grade, has never felt true man pain and giggles at my metaphorical descriptions.

We walk home together, him a little gingerly and a bit confused as to what jewelry and the favorite food of squirrels has to do with the lingering pain in his lower regions.

Me, knowing that my son has taken one more step toward becoming a man.

When we walk through the door his mother asks what happened.

I tell her the story. She comforts him and says, “I know that hurts honey, it’s kind of like getting hit in the nose.”

No, it’s nothing like getting hit in the nose.

It’s times like these when only a Dad will do.