The day was off to a good start...the Steeler Face was back in Iowa to see his wife and kids for the first time in three weeks, and of course, watch the Steelers game. Friends, Pat and Heather were on Skype (reporting from Michigan) along with Pat's parents. This particular arrangement has yielded nothing but three Steeler victories.
Early on, the Steeler defense had provided the occasion for two blaring clips of "Renegade" following a Ryan Clark interception and a LaMarr Woodley sack, respectively. After Heath Miller hauled in his second touchdown of the game from Big Ben to put Pittsburgh up 14-7 near the end of the first quarter -- the Steeler Face was enjoying his second vodka-soaked cherry to celebrate the score.
"Oh, life is like that. Sometimes, at the hight of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us."
-- A Christmas Story.
And then, I heard my wife say, "you sure did . . . you're going to have to go to the hospital." That was in response to my 12-year old son's announcement: "I just got bit by a dog."
Leaving the crackling fireplace, big screen TV, and Steeler-decorated man-cave, I found my son grasping his upper left arm dripping with blood and surprising deep wounds. I grabbed a handful of kitchen napkins and handed them to my son to apply the wound as we immediately headed for the car. The following timeline has been reconstructed from text messages between myself, Mrs. Steeler Face, and Pat:
4:10 p.m. -- My son and I arrive at the emergency room and announce my son's injury to the receptionist, which pretty much announced itself. While we are waiting to be seen in the lobby we switch out the blood-soaked napkins for fresh tissue paper on the coffee table.
4:25 p.m. -- We are invited into the triage room. The triage nurse sees my son's wounds and asks, "what happened?" While writhing in pain my son says, "I was bit by a dog." Triage nurse: "Did you call the police?" Steeler Face: "No. I brought him here as soon I saw the wound." Triage nurse: "Well, you have to call the police, or animal control, or something." Steeler Face: "Okay. My wife is at home and was talking to the dog's owner when we left . . . I'm sure she can take care of it; I was more worried about getting him to the hospital than calling the police first" Triage nurse: "We have to report it . . . it's hospital policy." The triage nurse then stops the triage and picks up the phone and asks someone for the number to the animal control division of the police department. There is some trouble getting the number, so she leaves the triage room. My son is still writhing in pain. The triage nurse returns in a couple minutes -- the animal control division of the police department is on the phone. I report the following information to the animal control division of the police department, and then repeat this information to the triage nurse: "We do not know what kind of dog it is. We do not know if the dog has had its shots. It is our neighbor's dog. My wife is at home and was talking to our neighbor when my son and I left the house to go to the hospital because his arm was bleeding and he was (and is) writhing in pain." I volunteer my wife's mobile number and urge that the animal control division of the police department call her to get the information they request because she was talking to our neighbor (who owns the dog) when we left and would be able to ask our neighbor (who owns the dog) what kind of dog it is, and if it has had its shots.
4:30 p.m. -- The animal control division of the police department called my spouse. She reports fully to them.
4:31 p.m. -- My son and I are shown to a room in the urgent care section. The door is closed. And we wait alone.
5:24 p.m. -- My wife sends a text message: "Steelers are up 24-14"
5:29 p.m. -- I text my wife: "Still waiting to see fucking doctor, or even a nurse. However, it is hospital rules that they call animal control and police immediately. No shit. They did THAT before finishing triage."
5:32 p.m. -- My wife requests an update. I am in the middle of looking around the room to find some fresh paper towels to cover his wounds, which are still bleeding. He continues to writhe in pain. We've been in the room alone without seeing anyone for over an hour now. I respond to my wife's request that although no one has come to tend to our son's injury, we should nonetheless feel reassured that the matter has been reported to the animal control division of the police department.
5:36 p.m. -- Perhaps, missing the sarcasm of my text, or perhaps out of irritation and concern, my wife responds, "I have already talked to the police."
5:40 p.m. -- A nurse comes in the room. No shit -- these are the first three questions she asks my son: "Was it your dog that bit you? What kind of dog was it? Is the dog up to date on its shots?"
My son answers the second question: "a furry one." I am too incredulous to formulate a sentence and speak it out loud at this point. However, in the back of my mind, I'm wondering if I should have shot the fucking dog and brought it with us to the hospital . . . perhaps, that would make things go more quickly. Before she left the nurse did hand my son some fresh gauze for his wounds (that she didn't look at or offer to treat) and then asked her fourth and final question: "Is there anything else I can do right now?" I think the look on my face might have scared her away.
5:42 p.m. -- My wife writes in a text message: "I'm sorry you're having such a bad time, but your texts are entertaining us. Has someone asked you about the dog again?"
5:50 p.m. -- I'm failing to see the humor in the situation anymore. My son has been sitting with an open wound full of dog shit and slobber that I'm sure is working its way into a fantastic infection. I write my wife: "When....IF...the doctor or anyone else ever comes...and the first thing they ask me is about the fucking dog, I am going to lose it."
6:02 p.m. -- A man in scrubs walks into the room, quickly glances around, makes no eye contact, and leaves without saying a word. My son called out after him: "REALLY?!" That is absolutely true. That happened.
6:03 p.m. -- 'That's my boy', I'm thinking of my son fondly.
6:04 p.m. -- My wife suggests that I bring our son home and ask another one of our neighbors, who is a doctor of veterinary medicine, if he would mind sewing up our son's arm.
6:13 p.m. -- My cell phone battery tells me that it is about to die.
6:16 p.m. -- We still have not seen a doctor.
6:25 p.m. -- Somehow I didn't totally go batshit when the doctor walked in the room and the first thing she asked was, "What kind of dog bit you? Do you know if it is up to date on its shots?" I did, however, manage to politely interrupt her to say that we didn't know what kind of dog it was, what its name is, or what if any shots it has had. I added that I had personally talked to the animal control division of the police department while we were in triage over two hours ago, that my wife had talked to the police and that the division had assured us that they had nothing but "top people" working on the case. I also reassured her that our primary concern in this whole thing was to get it reported to the police, but, in the meantime, I was trying to solve the small matter with the nasty ass bite my son was sporting on his arm, which is why I drove him to the emergency room instead of the animal fucking control division of the police department.
6.36 p.m. -- My friend Pat writes in a text: "I know you're not having a good day. The Steelers would not help. Disaster."
6:40 p.m. -- The doctor gives several injections into my son's arm to numb it up. I ask him not to look at what the doctor is doing, and he squeezes my hand so hard it turns purple. He has four deep cuts that are spewing out tissue. For several minutes his wounds are cleaned before they are eventually sewn up and the wounds bandaged.
7:05 p.m. -- I respond to Pat's text: "Damn."
7:06 p.m. --Pat writes: "Defense is awful. Awful!!!!"
7:07 p.m. -- Pat writes: "How's Jeff?"
7:08 p.m. -- I write: "just finished getting stitches."
7:57 p.m. -- My wife writes that our youngest son wants to skip school tomorrow.
8:16 p.m. -- We are given two prescriptions for antibiotics and released from the hospital.
THE AFTERMATH...
Despite holding leads of 24-14 in the third quarter and 31-21 in the fourth quarter, the Steelers managed another spectacular defensive meltdown, as it allowed the cast from the Pirates of the Caribbean to score 13 unanswered points to end the game. Sebastian Janikowski popped a 43-yard field goal as time expired to give Oakland a 34-31 upset win. Keep in mind this is an Oakland Raiders squad that managed 27 points in its first two games combined -- that torched Pittsburgh for 34 points today.
Big Ben had another sterling performance for my fantasy team, completing 36 of 49 passes for 384 yards and 4 touchdowns. Mike Wallace had another terrific game too with 123 yards receiving and a TD.
The running game struggled mightily again as Redman and Dwyer combined for only 26 yards rushing and one costly fumble.
The Baltimore Haters pulled off a 31-30 win over the New England Cheatriots and are now tied with the Cincinnati Bungles at 2-1 for the AFC North lead. Pittsburgh is now 1-2 and the Brownie Elves are 0-3.
The Steelers get to think about the miserable game they played today for a while, as they now go into their bye week. Pittsburgh will take on the Philadelphia Eagles at 1 p.m. eastern on October 7, and four days later will play the Tennessee Titans on Thursday night.
The Steeler Face is 0-3 in game forecasts on the year and 10-9 all-time.
Bottom line: The Steelers passing game awesome; its running game is nonexistent; and the defense . . . WTF?!
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