Keep Your Foot On the Bag!!!!
Went way down memory lane on the 3rd of July because I remember it as the date I tore my Achilles tendon.
This year I didn't remember much of the pain of the situation although there was plenty of that! I don't recommend rupturing that part of the body.
It sucks.
But I thought of so many things:
1). The moment of the rupture will always be funny to me because it was on a ball that I absolutely crushed. I didn't hit a lot of homers...I was a great hitter, mind you, but think Wade Boggs...not Mickey Mantle. Yet I had hammered that ball and as I rounded second I saw the CF chasing it. I was just 31 years old. I could still move a little. I registered the fact that it was a homer.
But it wasn't.
I had just passed the shortstop when it felt as if I were shot.
"What did you do?" I asked him, thinking he'd hit me with a rock.
"Nothing," he answered.
Two more steps and I was just hoping to make it to 3rd where my buddy John was waiting. John doesn't have a medical degree, but I trusted him as a smart guy.
"It's not torn," he said. "Keep your foot on the bag!!!"
2). I liked beer back then. I liked drinking all the beer that was available. I sat on the ground near the team bench and drank beer while resting my leg on a huge bag of ice. We won the game (Renaldo homered twice - he'd kill me if I didn't mention that) and I stood up to congratulate the guys.
Or I tried to.
They had to pull a car onto the grass and they pushed me into the back of it.
"I still don't think it's ruptured," John said.
(Did I mention he's in charge of a ton of children as a decorated principal?)
3). My friends drove me to my parents home. I wasn't living there at the time, but they were my go-to-guys. Mom and Dad would do anything for me.
Except Mom wasn't home.
I called out for Dad.
"What do you want?" he asked. I made the painful trip to where he was seated, watching the baseball game.
"I need help," I said.
"The game is tied," he answered. "Get someone else."
I stood before him in absolute distress.
"Where's Kathy?" he asked.
4). Kathy rushed me to the emergency room. The doc checked me out. I was still half-in-the-bag but I wanted to get all-in-the-bag. The team was out drinking. Could I join them?
"My buddy said it isn't ruptured," I said. "He's a school teacher. He's been trained in physical health," I tried.
"Tell him not to open a practice," the doc said. "It's ruptured in two places."
(I've never really thanked you properly, JC).
I had one question for the doc who explained to me that I couldn't have the immediate surgery I needed because I had drank too many beers.
"If you're doing the surgery in the morning can I keep drinking now?" I asked.
The doc just looked at me.
"He's an idiot," Kathy mentioned.
5). And then life stopped. I had the surgery and all the things I wanted or needed to do were just stopped. I remember thinking, "God wants to give you a timeout."
And Kathy took care of me.
She cooked.
She cleaned.
She waited on me hand and foot.
"Do you need anything?" She'd sweetly ask every day as she called me from work.
"A hacksaw and a gun," I'd answer.
"I'll make sure you don't hack off the cast or shoot yourself," she said.
And that's significant.
Because of two things.
It's been 17 years since she babied me like that.
And I still can't really walk right.
This year I didn't remember much of the pain of the situation although there was plenty of that! I don't recommend rupturing that part of the body.
It sucks.
But I thought of so many things:
1). The moment of the rupture will always be funny to me because it was on a ball that I absolutely crushed. I didn't hit a lot of homers...I was a great hitter, mind you, but think Wade Boggs...not Mickey Mantle. Yet I had hammered that ball and as I rounded second I saw the CF chasing it. I was just 31 years old. I could still move a little. I registered the fact that it was a homer.
But it wasn't.
I had just passed the shortstop when it felt as if I were shot.
"What did you do?" I asked him, thinking he'd hit me with a rock.
"Nothing," he answered.
Two more steps and I was just hoping to make it to 3rd where my buddy John was waiting. John doesn't have a medical degree, but I trusted him as a smart guy.
"It's not torn," he said. "Keep your foot on the bag!!!"
2). I liked beer back then. I liked drinking all the beer that was available. I sat on the ground near the team bench and drank beer while resting my leg on a huge bag of ice. We won the game (Renaldo homered twice - he'd kill me if I didn't mention that) and I stood up to congratulate the guys.
Or I tried to.
They had to pull a car onto the grass and they pushed me into the back of it.
"I still don't think it's ruptured," John said.
(Did I mention he's in charge of a ton of children as a decorated principal?)
3). My friends drove me to my parents home. I wasn't living there at the time, but they were my go-to-guys. Mom and Dad would do anything for me.
Except Mom wasn't home.
I called out for Dad.
"What do you want?" he asked. I made the painful trip to where he was seated, watching the baseball game.
"I need help," I said.
"The game is tied," he answered. "Get someone else."
I stood before him in absolute distress.
"Where's Kathy?" he asked.
4). Kathy rushed me to the emergency room. The doc checked me out. I was still half-in-the-bag but I wanted to get all-in-the-bag. The team was out drinking. Could I join them?
"My buddy said it isn't ruptured," I said. "He's a school teacher. He's been trained in physical health," I tried.
"Tell him not to open a practice," the doc said. "It's ruptured in two places."
(I've never really thanked you properly, JC).
I had one question for the doc who explained to me that I couldn't have the immediate surgery I needed because I had drank too many beers.
"If you're doing the surgery in the morning can I keep drinking now?" I asked.
The doc just looked at me.
"He's an idiot," Kathy mentioned.
5). And then life stopped. I had the surgery and all the things I wanted or needed to do were just stopped. I remember thinking, "God wants to give you a timeout."
And Kathy took care of me.
She cooked.
She cleaned.
She waited on me hand and foot.
"Do you need anything?" She'd sweetly ask every day as she called me from work.
"A hacksaw and a gun," I'd answer.
"I'll make sure you don't hack off the cast or shoot yourself," she said.
And that's significant.
Because of two things.
It's been 17 years since she babied me like that.
And I still can't really walk right.
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