PART I:
I remember finding out you don’t exist. In the back seat of my mom's car, my hand in my pants, the empty space of a ball I didn't know I had been missing. I remember the story: "You had a bacterial infection." "It inflated to the size of a grapefuit." "A softball." "A Bucca di Beppo meatball!" "Then it died and receded." Numerous urologists glancing back and forth between my records and my scrotum. They were confused. "What kind of infection?" "Bacterial." "Hmm...."
My mom nervously holding different protective cups for me to wear during soccer. My mom telling me football and baseball were out of the question unless I wore it. My mom trying to get me to wear it in tennis too. The cheap foam cupping my remaining testicle, the elastic straps pulling at my ass. Walking weird to practice. My mom: "I want to make sure I have grandkids one day." The predictable teenage fears entering; "Why don't I like sports? Maybe I'm gay." Was I getting normal amounts of testosterone? Is this a disability? Is it making me effeminate? Some kid in 10th grade—overweight, unhappy, a bully—cracking open the class medical records in the teacher's desk; whispering to friends, "Josh only has one ball, he's a Uniball."
The whispers and laughs spread through the room, the grade, the whole school. Big news. My parents consoled me by saying things like "Those kids are idiots." I knew it was a big deal and also not a big deal. All these memories are storied deep in my body somewhere, etched into the cell walls.
PART II:
