Dad and I walked outside into the cold, morning breeze. I ran ahead as Dad yelled at me to slow down. I couldn’t though. I was too excited. When we finally arrived at the park, Dad pulled the jump rope out of his pocket and smiled. “Watch closely,” he said. He held the rope with both his hands and started jumping up and down while swinging the rope around and around. As I watched my dad, I felt my heart throbbing faster and adrenaline pumping into my veins. I was six and this was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen. When he stopped, I snatched the rope out of his hands.

“Let me try!” I said. As I held the rope awkwardly in my hands, I felt a wave of uneasiness and anxiety. Slowly and cautiously, I began turning the rope around my small body. As I heard the rope swinging and lightly tapping the ground in front of me, I closed my eyes and jumped as high as I could. When I opened my eyes, the rope was behind me and my dad was smiling from ear to ear. I was happy too. But after trying it again, I couldn’t seem to skip the rope more than once or twice before stepping on it. I was getting beaten by a stupid rope and it made me angry.

“Alright Kevin, your mom and grandparents are waiting upstairs. Let’s go eat,” Dad said after watching me try and fail for a few minutes.
“No! I want to keep jumping until I figure out how to jump better!” I said. My dad grinned lightly. “Okay, then” he said, “just a few more minutes”. I nodded and began jumping again. After getting my feet caught up countless numbers of times, my face got red and I felt tears welling up.

“Ready to go home now?” my Dad said. “No! I’m not going home until I can jump five times in a row!” I yelled. I clenched the handles in my hands and started running. Annoyed and vexed at my failed attempts, I began whirling the rope as I was dashing. “Don’t do it Kevin! You’re gonna fall!” my dad yelled from behind. I couldn’t hear him. I was too busy trying to run and jump at the same time. I looked only at my feet, trying my best to not get them tangled up as I sped toward the other side of the park.

Suddenly, I felt my toe catch on something hard. For a split second my body hung in the air as I launched forward. And then, I screamed as my right knee rammed in the cold cement and I skidded to a stop. Next thing I knew, I was face down on the ground.

Clueless about what had just happened, I didn’t dare move a muscle. “Kevin! Are you all right?” yelled my Dad as he approached me. I couldn’t feel a thing at first. I was still trying to figure out what had just happened. Terrified yet curious, I slowly tried to roll myself over, but couldn’t. My knee stung worse than I could have ever imagined. For the first time in my life, I saw and tasted blood. Red drops of my precious blood were pouring out ceaselessly from my knee. “I told you to stop! It’s going to be alright. Don’t worry,” my Dad said as he finally caught up. I cried and cried. The whole world was becoming blurry as more tears cascaded out of my eyes. Ever so gently, my Dad picked me up off the ground and slowly started walking back to our apartment.

When the hard, cold concrete ripped away the skin covering my knee, I couldn’t imagine then that anything could possibly sting worse. But many things did. From then throughout high school, I’ve suffered much more painful injuries than skinned knees, but the memory of the first skinned knee still lives in my mind vividly and in a way, nothing will ever hurt that much. As Sheryl Crow sings, the first cut is the deepest.