The one benefit of having my mediocre sports career rudely halted in my freshman year at the University of Guelph? It’s been a long time since I’ve been injured.
Oh, there was a disastrous tumble down Blackcomb Mountain in 1989, when my best friend Rosie tricked me into doing a double black diamond. “Just tuck,” he said, “you’ll be fine.” One death cookie later and I’ve been dealing with neck issues everyday for the past twenty-one years.
Then there was the time my wife tried to kill me in Peru.
Several days of high altitude trekking led me to being carried down a mountain by several undersized farmers. The high altitude sickness had me so messed up, I had some crazy dreams about trying to save Martin Luther King’s life mixed with regular conscious outbursts to all those around me. My travel companions were convinced they hadn’t let all the prisoners escape, so my accusations became confirmation that I had lost my cheese.
More recently, I jumped into a live drill with the high school football team I coach… also known as the Lawrence Park Panthers… 2009 Tier II city champions (mandatory plug!). Pretending I actually knew something about playing the sport, I challenged my kids to get tougher in a particular session. A disgruntled DB, surnamed Dong, responded appropriately by putting his helmet through my face, which resulted in several stitches on the inside of my mouth to sew up the resultant hole. I remember sitting at Sunnybrook Hospital that night, missing an eagerly anticipated Monday Night Football game, telling myself how stupid I was. Or am.
It was back to Sunnybrook for another visit last Thursday night. The fun started on match point, about 9:45 PM, at my squash club. Mh3 was up two games to one, 10-9 in the fourth, with an easy backhand down the wall to win the match.
As I went to plant my right foot for the crucial shot a little voice said, “STOP!” Oh I wish I could have.
I’m not sure if the explosion in my knee started before I planted my foot or on the way down. Either way, the detonator went off, and my knee disintegrated.
Torn MCL. Torn ACL. Torn muscles. Bruised tibia. Meniscus stew.
Foot, ankle, knee, leg, butt, all disappeared below me as I collapsed like a toy soldier at the flick of a boys finger. My soon to be deaf opponent was in more shock than I was, as I screamed like a hungry baby. Between wails of “I broke my leg,” “Call 911,” and a few F bombs I prepared to pass out. (Now I’m being dramatic).
While consciousness was never actually lost, a hundred thousand thoughts flashed through my mind. Ranging from the absurd (why didn’t I win this damn match a point earlier); to the ridiculous (what if I get a blood clot and have a stroke like my high school drafting teacher did after a ski injury); to the petty (there goes my trip to Las Vegas for the NHL Awards). Before I got too out of control Randy and Paul showed up… my friendly paramedics. (Names disguised for legal reasons).
These two guys quickly reassure me that: A. I still had two legs; B. My leg was not broken; C. Yes I was too fat to be playing squash. (JK).
After being loaded up on the stretcher, wrapped like an Egyptian mummy, and paraded past wedding guests from the club’s ballroom, it was off to the ambulance. I phoned my wife on the way who somehow thought I said I was driving to the hospital because I had a sore knee and I would be home in an hour.
Fast forward twelve hours later and I am getting the good news from the surgeon. My X-rays gave him, quote, “the heebie jeebies,” and he whisked me off for a CT scan. Upon my return, he outlined a program of four weeks of phsyio, icing, and rehab to get the swelling down… so they could determine what type of knife work will be required to rebuild the Six-Thousand Dollar Man.
So, drawing inspiration from my beloved hero Gale Sayers (hence the “3” in MH3 for those who keep asking… Google his autobiography if you are still unsure); I am off to rebuilding my wheel and attempting a comeback.
The summer that was to be: a new tennis ladder, hiking in Provance with my kids, and a week in cowboy boots at Stampede; has quickly been replaced by my drill sergeant phsyio therapist, a collection of walkers, canes, and crutches littering our house, and a newfound ability to slide down any set of stairs on my arse.
It may be a year before I am back on the court. But it could be worse! Maybe it will give me time to start that book I’ve always dreamt of writing.
I’ve got a title already in mind… can you guess?