I'd had two little accidents as a teenager; a car crash and an incident with some stairs.
These had left both of my shoulders rather weak; dislocations will do that to a the feeble frame of a growing child.

But my wiriness and spurts of energy were enough to get me onto the school rugby team. I have no idea what position I played, but I was in that line that ran all the way across the field, and my lithe figure was able to twist and squirm out of the grasp of the heavier teenagers, especially those whose hormones were giving them a really hard time.

But come one muddy October afternoon, the PE master announced that one of the regular boys was off sick, and someone from the back row had to come forward and make up the scrum. Which is how a pathetic 8-stone 15-year-old version of myself was wedged in the middle of a mass of sweaty, stinking teen meat, with a beefy head wedged under each armpit.

The ball was chucked in, and the frenzied lurching and kicking began as the scrum heaved this way and that, ankles stabbing at the ball.

Until someone lost their grip on the muddy field, and our side started to topple. The opponents pushed harder, feeling the scrum give, and with a mighty bellow the scrum surged and we all went over, collapsing in a heap of stripy shirts and mud-spattered knees.

People picked themselves up and grinned through gum shields as the PE master blew his whistle. But down at the bottom of the pile, half man half mud I lay there, my two arms pushed to the wrong side of my shoulder blades. As the scrum went over, I'd managed to have both of my arms dislocated simultaneously.

The sight was not unlike a badly-swatted fly, legs still ineffectively twitching as the main carapace lay crushed and broken. The sports class gathered round, silent in sympathy until the PE master gathered his wits and took charge.

"Kemp, Wilson, help him up!" he barked as the two fattest kids game forward and got me upright. "Now grab his left arm; Bourne, Hussey, take his right," and I felt my wrists clamped tightly by the sweaty, clammy hands of my colleagues, held aloft like a rugby-playing Jesus.

The PE Master stood uncomfortably close to me, and looked me in the eye. In a stern voice he told me to take a deep breath, and as I did so he lunged forward with both palms flat, throwing his entire weight against my ribcage.

I can still hear the crunching sounds, 15 years later.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 15:03, 5 replies)

PE master..?
Hahaha!
"I am the PE master, cower before me!!"
( Photoshop Bitch 2014 edition, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 15:12, closed)

All Boys Grammar School, dontcha know.
We had 7 PE Masters, all of them pricks.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 15:21, closed)

Ouch
I have my own story to tell about dislocations, but like this one, it's rather nasty.

It could have been worse, as trapping nerves when relocating like this can be even more painful than the dislocation, as you probably well know.
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 15:19, closed)

They never fully recovered, they still pop out every know and then if I'm not careful
Pinched the nerve a few times (agony!) but never trapped it, thank fuck.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 15:21, closed)

I don't know if you've got kids
But I can imagine them tugging on your arms one day, and... :-(
(Kliper Filllets Getting noticed by twats on the internet since, Thu 19 Apr 2012, 15:27, closed)