Game on

Over the years, I have written numerous times about the various injuries I have suffered at the hands of sports.
I have always been active and played sports, but my brain sometimes forgets to fast-forward the calendar, and I sometimes try to play with the same intensity and zeal that I did when I was a teenager. The difference, of course, is that when you are a teen, you can simply stare for a few moments at the big patch of raw skin where your shin used to be and just watch it heal before your eyes. For some reason, that ability tends to fade some time around your mid-20s.
But I continued on, logging injury miles with basketball, soccer, softball and flag football. The recovery periods became longer and longer, and the walks up the stairs became slower and slower. Eventually, I told my wife I had no choice but to retire from sports. She told me she had no choice but to do a happy dance, as she would no longer have to hear my whine and watch me limp.
So I took about a year off from playing sports, and then heard the siren-like call of competition. With great fanfare, I announced my un-retirement. I am much like Brett Favre and Michael Jordan. Only without the talent, money, fame, etc. But Jordan and I do have the same first name.
I ended up playing flag football last season and suffered only a few minor dings. I was especially pleased that I had finally slain the “play through the pain” component of my brain. There was a time when I would gladly limp up to home plate and try to bat using my freshly severed leg. Last year, I felt a pull in my hamstring and said, “You know what, I think I’ll sit this one out.” It’s not that I don’t want to play. It’s that I want to be able to walk over the next week.
So this year, when the option for playing flag football again arose, I initially said yes. As the first few practices approached, various scheduling conflicts arose, and it was becoming more and more complicated to try and work yet one more activity into the rather full family calendar. I made the decision that I would pass on this season. Then, last week, a friend of mine asked if I could come out and scrimmage on Sunday. They were a few people down, and said they needed one more to have a full squad. Fine, I said. My afternoon was open, and I could use a little physical activity.
I was feeling pretty good about the game. I had a touchdown catch and an interception, and can now honestly say that I was playing against people half my age and holding my own. (That was less impressive when I was 20.) And then came the play. I went out for a pass, and the quarterback threw what amounted to a jump ball between the cornerback and me. Somewhere in my ascent, I took an unintentional cleat to my calf, and also got hit so that I was horizontal to the ground. I am not sure how high up I was, but I do know it was high enough for my brain to process the thought, “We’re falling more than we normally do. This could hur...THUD!”
Fortunately, I didn’t get the wind knocked out of me. Unfortunately, when I went to take a step, my right leg buckled like a wet spaghetti noodle. I had the mother of all charley horses, and my leg was taking great pleasure at making me walk around like a newborn colt.
When I got home, my wife was less than surprised to see me hobbling in. I went and got an ice pack and opted for sitting on the couch watching football, which seemed safer. After about 15 minutes of ice, I switched over to a heating pad, because I once heard someone say you should do that, and that’s good enough medical advice for me.
That evening, I went to bed with some more heat and a few Motrin. My calf was still hurting and navigating the stairs was less than pleasurable. I was gearing myself up for the morning, when I would wake up, forget about my leg, step out of bed and fall to the ground, possibly making a shrieking yelp on my way down to the floor.
Morning came, and, in a medical event more shocking than anything you will see on “House,” I stepped out of bed and was able to walk relatively normally. It still ached a little bit, but I could even use the stairs without baby steps or whimpers. While some may credit my post-game injury treatment regimen as the reason for my fast recovery, I think the real reason is clear: I am again invincible. Let’s play. Nothing bad can come from this.