Several different kinds of pain accompany the writer's soccer injury and his trip to the ER

It only hurts when it hurts.

"How the heck do you hurt your hand playing soccer," asks my older brother, the orthopedic surgeon, obviously amused. "Aren't you supposed to use your feet?"

Very funny.

I've become accustomed to these little digs, given my penchant for injuries and my refusal to stop playing the sports that put me in harm's way. The worst moments (moments that often last forever) are the emergency room visits. I'll never forget the day, 10 years ago, when my poor wife, eight months pregnant with our first child, drove me to the ER after a mountain bike mishap.

I won't bore you with the details, except to say that it took eight stitches to close the gash on my right cheek, just below the eye (I still have no idea where that tree branch came from!). The doctor that day took one look at my swollen puss, glanced at my chart, and quipped condescendingly: "Mountain bike accident, huh? Shouldn't you know better at your age?"

The fact that he made the comment a decade ago tells you what I thought of his advice. A few months shy of my personal half-century mark (now that puts things in perspective), I still run, ski, snowboard, cycle (off- and on-road), skate a few nights a week in various hockey leagues, and play goalie for an over-40 soccer team. We play in Boston's Over the Hill Soccer League, a name that conveys the same gravity and levity as, well, the name of this publication.

This summer, our squad was asked to participate in an invitational match -- a "friendly" -- against a team from Gloucester during the city's St. Peter's Festival. Not 10 minutes into the second half, with our guys nursing a 2-1 lead, a Gloucester player made a nice move on the end line and sent a sharp pass across the penalty box.

Admittedly, 20 years ago, I might have gotten to the ball a bit faster. Then again, the attacking striker probably would have been quicker as well. In an instant, my hands, the soccer ball, and the striker's foot came together at the exact same moment. The foot won, as my opponent connected squarely with the ball, mashing the outside three fingers of my right hand in the process. Pain ripped through my arm like an electric current. Worst of all, the guy scored. I immediately knew I was hurt, but had no idea how bad. A teammate rushed up, asking: "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," I answered. "My hand is messed up."

As I grimaced, face down in the grass, another teammate removed my padded goalie gloves. All I heard was: "Oh, that's what's wrong."

When I finally worked up the nerve, I peeked at my right hand, and saw my ring finger bent unnaturally at a right angle, sideways. Someone's wife called 9-1-1, and I found myself the embarrassed center of attention as I trudged off the field. The first responders took one look at my crooked digit, and said, legally, they couldn't touch me.

A paramedic, who didn't have the same liability headaches, tried to pop the joint back into place, but to no avail. He did succeed, however, in dropping me to my knees. So I click-clacked in my cleats across the asphalt parking lot and sheepishly took a seat in an awaiting ambulance.

Heading to the hospital, I thought an ambulance ride was justified for shredded knee ligaments or other major injuries, but making such a fuss over a dislocated finger seemed goofy. The attitude of the ER staff didn't help. Granted, a 40-something guy in a soccer outfit will elicit giggles, but I would have appreciated some self-control, especially since most members of the staff were noticeably overweight.

My doctor, however, was completely empathetic. A short, spry woman with running shoes and a lilting accent, she checked out the finger, ordered X-rays, and said she'd be back in a jiffy to straighten things out. Self-consciously, I made a comment about feeling silly, playing a kid's game at my age. "At least you're out there," she replied without hesitation. "That's the important thing."

She was right. And I'll be back on the field, once the dislocated finger heals. After all, the boys rallied to win the Gloucester game, and I don't want them thinking I'm expendable.