RichZ
Fort the ead!
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The birth of UConn Testicular mojo is a long story, and is not recommended for the squeamish. But if you've got the stones to read it, I've got the stones to write it down. Here, for your dancing and listening pleasure, as well as to feed the mojo, is my testicular testimony regarding a big ol' sack o' mojo.
On Labor Day weekend of 1973, I was attacked by my own appendix. Unfortunately, it began leaking before I got to the hospital. The docs thought they'd managed to clean it all up, but alas, within days my temp went to over 105 and stayed there. I had developed peritonitis, which in turn generated what was referred to in medical journals (yes, they wrote articles about it in medical journals, but somehow missed the important mojo development aspect entirely) as a 'wildfire abscess'. It filled my abdominal cavity, then squeezed into my scrotum. Very quickly (a matter of a few hours) my scrotum swelled to a bit larger than a volleyball and appeared headed for basketball size.
I was in pain that I don't believe anyone else on earth can quite appreciate. The skin of the scrotum was stretched so tightly that it squeezed all its blood vessels closed and very quickly became gangrenous.
You all kn0w what the treatment for gangrene is, I'm sure.
Amputation.
I was, according to the New England Journal of medicine, within moments of death. Removal of more than 95% of my scrotal tissue, along with the removal of the puss it and my abdominal cavity contained, saved my life.
For the next several weeks, team testiculo was swinging free and unrestrained. It was not a picnic, but was not nearly as painful as one might imagine. Except every evening when the urologist who had performed the deed came in with a bottle of alcohol and a bunch of gauze and kind of scraped the guys clean. Thankfully(?) by week's end he had turned that task over to a couple student nurses -- one of whom was rather hot, resulting in some embarrassing situations, but that's a story for another time.
Several weeks later, after assuring me that the damned thing would grow back, the urologist, who by now I referred to as Doctor Pain, jammed the guys into my belly, stretched the remaining flap of scrotal tissue over the opening and sewed the whole thing closed.
I remained in the hospital for almost three months, with a tube sticking through a huge gash in my side, sucking vile smelling stuff out of my belly while they tried to find an antibiotic that would work on the infection. By the time I got out of the hospital on Thanksgiving weekend, the sack had indeed grown to adequate, if not normal size, and the guys were back where they belonged.
Sort of.
The new and improved scrotum kind of favored the side where the last tab of healthy tissue had been, so ever since then, I've had two left nuts.
A few days later, on December first, the Jimmy Foster, Tony Hanson and Al Weston led Huskies crushed Yale in the season opener. It was televised (on Channel 3 I believe), and might have been the first UConn game I ever saw on TV. The testicular mojo was born then, as that team went on to a 19 win season and an NIT birth.
While I appreciate, the power of testicular mojo and even revel in my contribution to its existence, I've got to admit that all these scrotum pictures on the yard are giving me a bit of a queasy feeling.
On Labor Day weekend of 1973, I was attacked by my own appendix. Unfortunately, it began leaking before I got to the hospital. The docs thought they'd managed to clean it all up, but alas, within days my temp went to over 105 and stayed there. I had developed peritonitis, which in turn generated what was referred to in medical journals (yes, they wrote articles about it in medical journals, but somehow missed the important mojo development aspect entirely) as a 'wildfire abscess'. It filled my abdominal cavity, then squeezed into my scrotum. Very quickly (a matter of a few hours) my scrotum swelled to a bit larger than a volleyball and appeared headed for basketball size.
I was in pain that I don't believe anyone else on earth can quite appreciate. The skin of the scrotum was stretched so tightly that it squeezed all its blood vessels closed and very quickly became gangrenous.
You all kn0w what the treatment for gangrene is, I'm sure.
Amputation.
I was, according to the New England Journal of medicine, within moments of death. Removal of more than 95% of my scrotal tissue, along with the removal of the puss it and my abdominal cavity contained, saved my life.
For the next several weeks, team testiculo was swinging free and unrestrained. It was not a picnic, but was not nearly as painful as one might imagine. Except every evening when the urologist who had performed the deed came in with a bottle of alcohol and a bunch of gauze and kind of scraped the guys clean. Thankfully(?) by week's end he had turned that task over to a couple student nurses -- one of whom was rather hot, resulting in some embarrassing situations, but that's a story for another time.
Several weeks later, after assuring me that the damned thing would grow back, the urologist, who by now I referred to as Doctor Pain, jammed the guys into my belly, stretched the remaining flap of scrotal tissue over the opening and sewed the whole thing closed.
I remained in the hospital for almost three months, with a tube sticking through a huge gash in my side, sucking vile smelling stuff out of my belly while they tried to find an antibiotic that would work on the infection. By the time I got out of the hospital on Thanksgiving weekend, the sack had indeed grown to adequate, if not normal size, and the guys were back where they belonged.
Sort of.
The new and improved scrotum kind of favored the side where the last tab of healthy tissue had been, so ever since then, I've had two left nuts.
A few days later, on December first, the Jimmy Foster, Tony Hanson and Al Weston led Huskies crushed Yale in the season opener. It was televised (on Channel 3 I believe), and might have been the first UConn game I ever saw on TV. The testicular mojo was born then, as that team went on to a 19 win season and an NIT birth.
While I appreciate, the power of testicular mojo and even revel in my contribution to its existence, I've got to admit that all these scrotum pictures on the yard are giving me a bit of a queasy feeling.
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