Editor's Note: Columnis heidi Nieland is taking a month-long writing sabbatical. During her break, the Southeast Missourian is publishing favorite past columns. This column origianlly ranf Feb. 18, 1995.

There's a price to be paid when you're 6 feet, 3 inches tall but your body thinks like a size 8.

You hit your head getting out of the car. You run the edge of your shoulder into doorways. You trip a lot.

Sure, I've had my share of embarrassing moments. Each time one happened, I thought: "This one takes the cake. Yep, nothing worse than that."

But last week I had the end-all, be-all of embarrassing moments in front of about 1,500 people. It paved the way for The Week from Hell.

I guess Steve Mosley, son of Southeast Missourian columnist Jean Bell Mosley, said it best. A fax came from him the other day. It read:

"Heidi Nieland took a fall

televising basketball.

So some good will come of it,

write a column and tell all!

P.S. You may use this poem to introduce your column."

That's a fine idea, Mr. Mosley.

You all know I moonlight as a camera operator for a video production company and Sikeston public schools. Part of my job for SPS is to televise high school basketball games on Sikeston's cable access channel.

It was a Friday night, and I strapped on 50 pounds of camera equipment before the big game with Cape Central. I had the battery belt, the headphones, the camera and the 10 yards of cable trailing behind me. Standing on the edge of the court felt great -- the field house was packed with enthusiastic fans and I was bringing this great game to all the folks at home.

Until HE struck.

It isn't rare for a ball to go out-of-bounds during a basketball game. It isn't even rare for one to go toward a camera operator. When it happened during the third quarter, I put out my hand to bat the ball away.

Remember driver's education, when your teacher told you that every time a ball goes in front of you, expect a kid to be behind it?

That teacher was right, only I didn't see the player attempting to keep the ball from going out. Sure, I saw him at close range milliseconds later when he landed on top of me five feet away from my original position.

My first reaction was to assess the physical damage. Bleeding foot, bruised leg, broken viewfinder. My second reaction was to look around.

The 1,500 fans were staring my way. When the high school principal dragged me to my feet, they applauded. That was absolutely the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. Fortunately, I was in too much pain to notice.

Did I mention I had a date for the game? Yes, it gets worse. The Date came running out of the press box to see if I was okay. He noted the crowd's reaction.

"I can't believe how people just snickered a little and the game went on," he said. "If one of those young, nubile cheerleaders got trampled, I'll bet people wouldn't laugh!"

So what am I? Old and haggard? Okay, so I'm not a cheerleader, but I'm still young, gosh darn it!

The basketball disaster opened the way for a week full of tragic events. Like Monday, when I climbed on the Stairmaster at the gym and looked to my right. There stood "Randy," who had been the entertainment at a bachelorette party I recently attended, if you get my drift.

He was wearing spandex shorts and a tank top, looking perfect. I was wearing glasses, sweats with a hole in the knee, and a T-shirt that said "Jaycee Bootheel Rodeo."

One of these days I will learn to dress decently AND shave my legs before going to the gym.

There's more, but my fingers are sore from the basketball game. My alma mater won, but it was the least they could do after one of their players trampled me.

I may even have whiplash...