Lars sat on a hockey stick during his last game, earning himself a relatively large but not at all traumatic contusion on the back part of his upper thigh. I'm not sure how the stick made such an impact through his Kevlar pants, but I'll take a purple mark over a broken tooth any day.
Over dinner that night, Lars announced that his radish hurt. Chris and I locked gazes over the table, each glad to be chewing something and therefore unable to attempt an immediate answer. By sheer luck, neither of us choked. Chris finished chewing first and managed to croak out, "Your radish?" without cracking a grin (his eyebrows were on the ceiling, however, I think in an attempt to tighten his face so that a smile wouldn't be able to sneak out). I chose the safer path and took another bite of my dinner.
"Yes, Daddy. My," pause. "Well, you know, this...," pause. "HERE! What I got from sitting on the hockey stick!"
"Oh! Your bruise! Yes, that's bound to hurt a bit but you'll be ok," finished Chris before jamming another bite into his own mouth and flashing me a distinct 'your-turn-next' look.