Arse, my elbow

With overprotective parents and institutions wary of being sued for any injuries, I'm surprised that school playgrounds are covered in asphalt rather than, say, marshmallows or inflated balloons. I'd like to think that grazed knees and hands from playing overly violent games during school breaks as a young boy toughened me up and taught me a little about risk.
However, now that the age of 30 is rapidly approaching, the need for toughening up and learning risk is less important. And, sadly, I appear no longer to have the miraculous youthful ability to regenerate skin rapidly and without scars or, more importantly, exercise without my muscles seizing up for days afterwards. Unfortunately, every Tuesday evening I play football on a concrete 'pitch' that by day is a school playground and by night is hired out by Camden council, seemingly to cause injury to my foolish co-workers.
Normally, I tend to limit the amount of effort I put into these games. On a Sunday morning, I'll throw myself around and in the way of the ball as much as is necessary, safe in the knowledge that I'll land on (relatively soft) grass (or, in most cases, mud). Hence, on Tuesdays I don't tackle with any venom and won't divert a goal-bound shot with a selfless leap in front of the ball. This strategy has frequently paid off. Whereas other players have suffered gashes, grazes and cuts that are present for weeks afterwards, I have remained relatively unscathed. Until last night.
For some reason that I have yet to fathom, I tried to clear a ball that was about six feet off the ground. With my right foot. While another played was running in to challenge for it. He was sensible enough to duck out of my matix-esque (only without the grace or slo-mo bullet-time camera work) kick, leaving me to gracelessly fall over his shoulder and onto the concrete below. Elbow first. I would have felt bad about hurting him if I wasn't so concerned with my own arm. The tingling feeling in my fingers wasn't a good start, but I quickly realised that nothing was broken. That didn't stop it hurting like hell.
The moral of this story is (apart from not playing on concrete like you are still 10 when you are three times that age: you no longer bounce), don't underestimate how important your elbow is. Sleeping, leaning on tables and sitting on the tube all require far more attention than should be necessary when you are trying to avoid knocking off a huge scab and bleeding everywhere. Next week, I'm going to play at walking pace and not tackle at all.