My leg looks like a chunk of raw meat that a particularly sadistic chef with a loathing of animal products — a vegan Emeril with a hangover, if you will — took a tenderizer too.

But, dang, was it fun getting it in that shape.

A few years ago, I started hanging around with some lunatics who feel the epitome of a good time can be experienced by wearing several pounds of metal while holding a road sign in one hand and a broomstick in the other and having some other lunatic club you around. Oddly enough, I think they’re right: It didn’t take long for me to become a full-fledged SCA member, complete with sword, shield and funky lookin’ clothing.

When I moved to the East Kingdom from Trimaris … eh, to New York from Florida, I was able to attend a few fighter practices, but, for the most part, I haven’t gotten a chance to have somebody smack me around for almost two years. (Well, there is that one place down on the Reeperban — but the cover charge is kinda steep …) So when I moved to Hamburg and discovered a group here, I was quick to jump aboard. This weekend, several of us headed to Heidelberg, where I got to experience my first SCA-Europe event.

Getting ready for the weekend had its own interesting moments. I hadn’t brought any of my armor with me, mainly because I couldn’t quite picture the scene at the airport: “Why, yes, Mr. Security Agent, that is a rather large mace — but, look, it still fits nicely into my carry-on bag!” While I don’t mind being beaten about the head and shoulders with large sticks, I prefer to be wearing a helmet and standing on a field while it happens, not curled up in a fetal position in an airport security office.

Instead, I somehow talked my sister into lugging my helmet across several time zones when she came to visit, badgered other lunatics in Hamburg into lending me some of their stuff and ended up cadging even more equipment from none other than His Royal Highness, the king of Drachenwald. (Hey, I thought it was cool — nobody’s saying you have to be impressed.)

That left one piece of equipment that, well, you really can’t borrow: a cup. Between years of karate training and my time in the SCA, I’ve grown quite aware of the importance of sticking a piece of hard plastic down your pants when you’re in the presence of people bent on whacking you with something. In fact, just for safety’s sake, I sometimes wear a cup just during normal times. It’s amazing how much more freely one can shoot off one’s mouth when so equipped.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought this vital piece of gear along with me, so I was forced to comb through the wilds of German commerce in search of one. (Like I hadn’t had my fill of that …) Again unfortunately, I didn’t have the foresight to look up the German word for “groin protection.”

Me: Ehh, sprechen Sie Englisch?
Clerk: A little
Me: Do you have athletic protectors?
Clerk: Like for rollerblading?
Me: No, I mean for the lower part of your body. (I wave my hands around below my waist.)
Clerk: Ah, yes, knee protection.
Me: No, no — I mean a cup. (I make a cup with my hands.)
Clerk: Oh, you mean for elbows.
Me: No, I mean this: (grabs crotch in what basically amounts to a universal sign of not-good thoughts)
Clerk: Unverschämt ausländisch Dumbkopf! (punches me in stomach and stalks off.)

After three or four rounds of that, I ended up finding a cup. It was good timing, because the punches were landing lower each time.

Although I was happy to have it, the cup didn’t see much action this weekend, since most of my opponents chose to confine their blows to one particular section of my left leg — hence the hamburger effect. Nevertheless, I did win three bouts, fighting for the honor of my lady in a pretty good fashion. It was worth the occasional bruise.

And, heck, I should stop limping sometime before the next event. Maybe next time, though, I’ll ask the other fighters to aim for the groin, since I have protection there. Yeah, that’s a good idea …