I noticed it on a Zoom call with Zach.

I was mid-pontification, arms behind my head, think talking, probably enthusiastically agreeing with Zach when I saw it.

Dark purple bruise, pretty big, just above my elbow.

No clue how it got there.

Don’t remember getting cleated or taking a fall.

Just another mystery bruise.

I get a lot of them – sometimes I see them, other times Kelly points them out with a “Eric, what happened?!” – the kind you don’t notice until someone else sees them, usually on my back or shoulders.

And I’m expecting an uptick because I just found a 40+ pickup basketball crew that I really like. (The one I saw today might have been a basketball bruise fwiw.)

Visible. Obvious. But I have no idea where it came from.

Other bruises are the opposite.

You can’t see them but you remember exactly how you got them.

I remember when I got fired from the company I started.

The layoffs, the funerals, the panic attacks, the days I didn’t want to get out of bed.

Being disappointed by people I trusted.

Disappointing people I love.

I remember moments of impact and I understand how those bruises show up now.

They show up in how I lead, how I parent, how I love.

In how I grip too tightly to things I should let go or just accept.

In how I assume responsibility for things that I can’t actually control.

In how I worry about money in ways that don’t make sense anymore.

(I could keep going)

The hard part for me is actively managing the bruises…and not letting the bruises manage me.

They’re there, they’re real, but don’t go away after a few days.

That’s the weird thing about trauma.

Sometimes you don’t know you’ve been hit until years later.

Sometimes you know exactly when it happened, but not how deep it went.

And sometimes you think you’ve healed, but the next hard thing brings it all back like muscle memory.

The author burying an a jumper from the elbow while wearing his high school team’s jersey.

I played pickup over Christmas with my dad’s crew at the Brunswick County Community College gym. (Go Dolphins!)

At one point 3 generations of Boggs men – me, my dad, and my son – played against 3 of my dad’s friends. It’s a great memory.

My dad is 68 – plays on multiple softball and basketball teams, honestly moves pretty well for his age, still can’t shoot for shit but I’d want him on my team beacuse he’s a great glue guy.

When I was 12, my hero was Michael Jordan and I guess my dad in that awkward 12 year old boy way.

Now? It’s definitely my dad and all of these old guys who just keep playing not because they’re good or because they think they’ll win something.

They play because not playing would mean surrendering something sacred. And because they know that they won’t be able to play that much longer.

The author’s father with a tough rebound and great assist. Like I said, glue guy.

There have been 2 guys that have had heart attacks during my Tuesday night soccer games. Two.

That’s two times I stood on MLK in Chapel Hill flagging down the ambulance when it drove by because it would be faster to get to the scene from the road than by going all the way to the parking lot.

Both guys are fine, in large part b/c there were MDs on the field to administer aid until the EMTs arrived.

#11 far left is my grandfather Emil Ferdinand Traenkner. I never met him.

I’ve been thinking about those old guys and the wisdom in why they play. And the emotional bruises they carry that keep them coming out to risk physical bruises.

We all carry them.

Some of them are well earned. Some of them were well endured. Some of them still hurt.

But they all mean something.

They show that you were there and that you got here.

Mystery Bruises