Having just returned from Addenbrooke’s A&E at half past eleven, stitches fresh and throbbing, I couldn’t help but reflect on what an absolute disaster of a day this has been. My nail is gone. GONE. Removed. Extracted. Deleted from existence. And for what? A 1-3 loss to Saffron Walden and a Lemon of the Match award for my owner having a “hurty hand.”
Brilliant.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me rewind to this morning, when life was simpler and I was, you know, intact.

The day started innocently enough. Sam was fussing about in his wardrobe, trying to decide which jumper to wear. Not just any jumper, mind you - his four jumper jumper. The one that looks like he’s wearing four jumpers at once because he clearly can’t commit to a single layer. Fashion icon, that one.
After what felt like an eternity of wardrobe deliberation (I’m a finger, I have no concept of time, but it felt long), he finally settled on his outfit and grabbed his stick. You know, the cool one he copied from his bestie. Very original, Sam. Nothing says “individual style” like plagiarising your mate’s equipment choices.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grimaced. That haircut. Oh, that haircut. I’ve been attached to this man for 26 years, and I’ve never seen a trim quite so tragic. It looks like he let Tuca and Toba have a go at it with safety scissors. Speaking of which, those cats had been absolutely mental this morning - Tuca knocked over Sam’s pre-match coffee, and Toba decided that Sam’s hockey bag was the perfect place for a nap. Typical.

We arrived at the pitch, and I had a bad feeling. Call it finger intuition, call it premonition, call it the fact that we were playing Saffron Walden and they always give us a proper run for our money. Either way, I wasn’t optimistic.
The match kicked off and within minutes, it was clear this wasn’t going to be our day. Saffron Walden were all over us like Toba on a fresh pile of laundry. Sam was doing his best, running around, making tackles, trying to channel his inner Miniminter (his other best friend, naturally - because why have normal mates when you can have a Sidemen member on speed dial?).
Then it happened.
Short corner. Saffron Walden. Sam sprinted out to defend, stick in hand, heart full of hope, and absolutely zero awareness of what was about to befall me.
I saw it coming. The ball, hurtling towards us at approximately one million miles per hour. Sam lunged. His stick connected. But so did I. The ball smashed directly into me with the force of a freight train driven by someone who really, really hates fingers.
CRACK.
That’s the sound of my nail splitting. Not just a little chip, mind you. A full, catastrophic, “this-is-going-to-require-medical-intervention” split.
The pain was indescribable. If I had a mouth, I would have screamed obscenities that would make a sailor blush. Instead, I just throbbed. Violently. Angrily. Resentfully.
Sam looked down at me, and I could see the colour drain from his face. Blood was everywhere. My nail was hanging on by a thread (literally). And all I could think was, “This is it. This is how I die. Not in a blaze of glory, not scoring a game-winning goal, but defending a short corner against Saffron Walden on a Saturday afternoon.”

To his credit, Sam tried to carry on. Tough it out. “It’s fine,” he kept muttering, as if saying it enough times would make it true. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t fine.
By half-time, I’d swollen to twice my normal size. I looked like a tiny, angry sausage attached to his hand. The other fingers were giving me sympathetic looks, but the thumb (smug git) seemed almost pleased about the attention I was getting.
The match continued without us. Well, technically Sam stayed on the sideline, cradling me like a wounded soldier, while the lads battled on. Teddie scored our only goal - brilliant work from him, absolutely brilliant - but it wasn’t enough. Saffron Walden netted three, and we were well and truly beaten.
As the final whistle blew, someone (I think it was Connor, the absolute legend) shouted, “Sam’s getting Lemon for that hurty hand!”
Hurty hand. HURTY HAND. I’ve been shattered, split, and soon to be de-nailed, and it’s being described as a “hurty hand.” The indignity.
 

Off to A&E we went, Sam’s fiancée by his side (bless her, she’s far too good for him). The drive was agony. Every bump in the road sent shockwaves through my entire being. I briefly considered detaching myself entirely just to escape the pain, but alas, I’m quite literally stuck with this guy.
At the hospital, a very kind nurse took one look at me and said, “Oh yes, that nail’s coming off.”
Coming. Off.
I’d like to say I faced my fate with dignity and courage, but honestly, I was terrified. The local anaesthetic helped (thank goodness for modern medicine), but watching them remove my nail was like watching someone demolish your house while you’re still living in it.
Sam’s fiancée held his other hand (traitors, all of them) while the procedure happened. She was wonderful, actually. Very supportive. Kept telling Sam it would be okay. Meanwhile, I was being systematically dismantled.
Stitches followed. Bandages. Painkillers. The works.
“Keep it elevated,” the doctor said. “And keep it clean.”
Elevated. Clean. I’m a FINGER. My entire existence is about touching things. This is going to be impossible.
 

Back at the clubhouse later (yes, Sam insisted on going back, the absolute madman), the Lemon votes were tallied. And guess who won?
Sam Highfield. For having a hurty hand.
The lads were merciless. “Proper tough, Sam.” “Really took one for the team there.” “At least you didn’t cry… much.”
I would have given them all the finger (ironically), but I was too busy being bandaged and useless.
Teddie got Man of the Match for his goal, which was well-deserved. At least someone had a good day. I tried to feel happy for him, but mostly I just felt bitter and nailless.
 

As I write this (well, as Sam types with his other hand while I sit here like a useless appendage wrapped in gauze), I can’t help but reflect on the absurdity of it all.
I’ve been with Sam through thick and thin. I’ve helped him grip that plagiarised stick, I’ve pet Tuca and Toba countless times, I’ve adjusted that tragic haircut in mirrors, I’ve even helped him pull on that ridiculous four jumper jumper.
And this is how I’m repaid? Shattered in a losing effort against Saffron Walden?
The worst part is, I know I’ll heal. The nail will grow back (eventually). The stitches will dissolve. But the memory of this day - the 1-3 loss, the Lemon award, the sheer humiliation of being described as a “hurty hand” - that will stay with me forever.
At least the other fingers are being supportive. The middle finger keeps telling me I’m still number one in his book. The index finger brought me a metaphorical cup of tea (I can’t actually drink, obviously). Even the pinky, usually obsessed with his own problems, has been checking in.
Only the thumb remains aloof. Typical thumb behaviour. Always thinks he’s better than the rest of us just because he’s opposable.
 

So here we are. Sam’s tucked up in bed, painkillers kicking in, cats curled up at his feet, fiancée reading beside him. And me? I’m throbbing away, nailless and resentful, replaying that short corner defence over and over again.
Next week, we’ve got another match. Will I be ready? Doubtful. Will Sam play anyway, probably making me worse? Almost certainly. Will Miniminter send a supportive text that makes Sam feel better about his injury? Probably, because that’s the kind of mate he is.
But for now, I’m going to rest. Heal. And plot my revenge against that ball, that short corner, and whoever decided that fingers should be exposed during hockey matches.
To Saffron Walden: you may have won the match, but you’ve made a powerful enemy today. Me. Sam’s finger. And when I return - nail restored, stitches gone, pain forgotten - I’ll be back defending short corners with the reckless abandon that got me here in the first place.
Because apparently, I never learn.
Final Score: Cambridge South 1-3 Saffron Walden
Goal: Teddie
Man of the Match: Teddie
Lemon of the Match: Sam Highfield (for having a hurty hand)
Casualties: One nail (RIP), one finger’s dignity, and Cambridge South’s premier division hopes. 
See you on the pitch next week. If I survive.

Best Regards,

Sam’s Finger
(Currently nailless, heavily bandaged, and absolutely furious)