Safe, But Still Very, Very Out

My dad, a man who captained his cross-country team in high school and even flirted with the idea of continuing his running career in college, has adopted the exercise mantra of "Five miles or five minutes, whichever comes first." Somehow after 20 years of strict adherence to this policy, he still maintains a rather slim figure and a full head of hair. OK, that last part may just be a personal grievance. Anyway, I bring all this up because, sadly, I'm falling into Middle Aged Man's (fellow Founts of Useless Knowledge will recognize this Mike Myers "SNL" character from the early '90s; my dad and I watched one of the skits together and the nickname stuck) mindset. Especially after having my right knee scoped back in 2001 as a result of the pounding my legs took running track and cross-country in college, I just have not been able to get myself back in the exercise routine that characterized my younger days. I played all kinds of basketball, soccer, and baseball growing up and then ran track and cross-country in high school and at Ohio University (hey, Coach Banton needed somebody to pick up all the cups out of lane one at the end of practice at OU, and I was happy to oblige.......hahahaha). The surgery helped put the final nail in my running coffin, and so I've really only had sporadic addictions to exercising on the bicycle and putting in laps in the pool. Well, a couple of years ago, I began a seasonal series of once a week exercise excursions as part of an adult softball team. No, not "adult" as in we had to wear special plastic covering before each game began, but "adult" as in, "Yeah, I think I could make it over to catch that ball, but it would require diving, and, well, I'm not 18 anymore and I make it a practice not to dive unless the landing area is a pool of appropriate depth."

Even though this exercise was weekly, I was always quite humbled and a bit ashamed at how easily winded I would get just playing softball. I mean, come on, we weren't exactly giving ol' Jennie Finch a run for her money. Anyway, I had been playing with the same group of guys for a couple of years, and toward the end of the second spring session this year, I had somehow convinced our coach/manager/supervisor to let me play catcher. Indeed, the only left-handed catcher in the whole league. Again, with a piece of Useless Knowledge: when I took my turn as the backstop, my mind wandered back to a guy named Benny Distefano who caught a bit for the Pirates back in the early '90's and was, like me, a southpaw. Well, as luck would have it, I really felt like I was coming into my own on the last day of the season. We always played a doubleheader each Monday night, so I was especially jazzed that I was playing so well in just the first game of the evening. I still remember the foul ball sent straight back from a batter early in the game that came precipitously close to eliminating any hopes of fatherhood I might still have. Of course, I was caught (pun intended) off guard and didn't make the play. Shortly after said foul ball, another ball came back, and with visions of testosterone-mad Kevin Mitchell dancing in my head, I snatched the tip bare handed to end the inning. Yes! I thought, Katybaldcoach has hit the big time! I legged out a single in our half of the inning. Riding my newfound feelings of softball uber-grandeur, I went to third on one play, and sensing a close play, executed one of the ugliest slides ever seen in any level of softball. My left foot was actually perpendicular to the ground. I look back and wonder how in the world I contorted my body into such a position. Anyway, as I slid into the base, the ball was overthrown, so officially, I was declared safe. However, just after the ball passed, I felt a sensation in my lower left calf that could be best be described as someone beaning me with the ball even though I knew the ball was nowhere near me. Inexplicably, I blurted out, "Who hit me?" reminiscient of Forrest Gump when he got shot in the buttocks. Why did I say this? I haven't the foggiest. The first thought I had was of Middle Aged Man circa 1991 when he and my sister and a couple of other kids were fooling around on Memorial Day playing softball. After scampering/running/moving with purpose to second base, MAM pulled up lame. On the morrow he knew something was definitely wrong, and sure enough, the good doctor had ripped his Achilles. Surgery followed, several weeks of crutches, and of course, MAM being MAM didn't do his part on the whole rehab thing, and thinking of the oh, so attractive scar he still bears just added to my mind's ominous meanderings. Anywho, since I didn't have a full time job this year, and since I don't live in Canada, I have no medical insurance. So as I'm flashing back to that not so frabjous day in '91, I'm also thinking, "How in the world do I pay for a surgery with no insurance? Is it time to give up a kidney?" Somehow I hobbled off the field and took refuge in the bathroom. With all these not so happy thoughts running through my head, I came the closest to blacking out than ever before in my life. Looking like I had taken shrapnel from an enemy mortar attack on the streets of Kabul, I dragged my leg back to the dugout and mumbled something to the coach about taking myself out of the game so I could get home and give myself the Old Yeller treatment. I decided to try and drive myself home from the ballpark. I called Pops as I began the commute, and Dad, who will never be employed by the Hallmark company, seemed quite certain that I had ripped my Achilles as well. Honestly, no pain was ever felt, just some really strong stiffness. Somehow I did complete the drive home and did so without ever taking off my cleats from the game. Cleat driving is never advisable even on two good legs, so I was really red-lining on the Stupid Meter with that decision. Of course, I'm not exactly the greatest when it comes to being proactive with any situation regarding my health, so I had no ice packs or heating pads at home. However, I did have a large cooler, and decided to draw on my knowledge gleaned from therapy sessions with the good folks of the Ohio University athletic training staff. I dumped all the ice I had in my freezer into the cooler and filled the rest of the cooler with water. My very own ice bath was born! Ah, sweet numbness settled in within minutes.

Also going through my head was what to do about work the next day. I had recently begun a long term sub position at a junior high in Katy filling in for a 7th grade math teacher. I knew that if I took a day off, I'd throw out any hope of pulling down long term sub pay and how would this look in the eyes of the school's administration if the sub needed a sub? So, I propped up the leg on a pillow and tried for a good night's sleep. I don't know if "good" could describe that evening's slumber, but I was able to hop into school the next day. I told the students my condition was to be blamed on those stealthy Viet Cong, but I think the reference was more than their 13 year old minds could bear. Of course, as a teacher, there was no chance I was going to be able to rest the leg during the day. I made it through the school day on Tuesday, made it through a shift of tutoring at Huntington, iced the leg vociferously that evening and made it through the school day on Wednesday. However, after another tutoring shift Wednesday afternoon, I thought I was going to have to go all Aron Ralston on my busted leg. It. was. throbbing!!! I think it was Wednesday evening when I finally said to myself, "Self, you can plainly see that this is quite an unpleasant physical condition, so why don't you ask the nice school nurse if she has any ideas or can at least let you borrow a heating pad?" Fortunately, I listened to this wise self-admonishment and was able to procure a heating pad from said nurse the next day. The results of the heat made for an extremely frabjous day! My "shrapnel shuffle" remained quite pronounced through the end of the school year but much more manageable. Admittedly, I did harbor thoughts of getting myself a nice XL 350 scooter with a nine volt a la George Costanza in a memorable "Seinfeld" episode. Alas, I was not working at Play Now but at a public school, so the scooter idea was a no go. Unfortunately, I never was able to give the leg the rest it needed until the school year ended at the first of June.

I did visit a RediClinic in HEB the last week of school for an "official" diagnosis. Fortunately, my near death experience turned out to be nothing more than a strain. The doctor/nurse/shaman just told me to keep icing, heating, and elevating for treatment. Still, it was quite humbling, and, honestly, a bit embarrassing to realize that I couldn't withstand even an hour of sustained exercise without thoughts of a physical armageddon almost knocking me unconscious. I mean, was it really that long ago when I could go out for eight or ten or 12 mile runs or hour plus long bike rides? "Five miles or five minutes?" Really?! Thanks, Dad! hahahaha

I guess the lesson to be learned from all of this is that maybe the vast majority of today's American youth actually have it RIGHT: there's something to be said for consuming large quantities of Chee-tos, communicating willy-nilly with friends and strangers on various and sundry forms of PDA's and cyber resources, as well as enduring mind numbing hours of video games and TV shows. Absolutely none of these activities can even remotely cause a strain, sprain, tear, or break of any part of the body (well, at least not below the waist).