One of my college teachers was an arrogant smartass that I didn't like very much. When final exams were coming up, he told the class, "Anyone tries to get out of taking this test had better have a broken arm."

The night before the final, tensions were high in my dorm, and a fight broke out. Before I knew what was happening, my best friend George (see above) was on the floor and his adversary, who had attacked him, had him down on the floor and was choking him. Without thinking, I clouted the assailant on the back of the head with my fist. Not a good strategy! In seconds, the fight was broken up by the intervention of some other friends. Neither of the original combatants was hurt, but I had broken my hand! (Fifth metacarpal, to be exact.)

From the pain and the immediate swelling, I knew something was broken. Coincidentally, I had broken one of my wrist bones almost exactly a year earlier (the navicular, that time). I knew from experience that the college health service was closed that time of night, and I had no idea where else I could get help, or whether immediate help would have made any difference. So I took two aspirins and decided it could wait till morning.

The final exam had been scheduled for 8 a.m. Since I had waited all night, I figured waiting another hour wouldn't make much difference, so I went ahead and took the final exam. It was my right hand, and I was right-handed. I worked right through the pain. I said nothing to the professor until the test was over. Then, as I handed him the exam, I said, "Well, I don't have a broken arm, but I do have a broken hand." I showed him my swollen hand. He just stared at me speechless. I walked out. I went straight from the classroom to the health service. I don't think I ever talked to that professor again.

As it turns out, I aced the course.