Injury to Insult: Part One

Your boy is back on the IR

A while back I wrote up an extensive list of lacrosse injuries that I have sustained over a long and not at all storied playing career. In the year that has been published, I can now add a grade two ankle sprain from LAXNAI one month after that was published and the injury I sustained two days ago playing for my summer ball team.

I was running full speed to my right, sweeping over the top knowing that I was going to turn back and try to lose my defender on the high wing. When I tried to turn, I felt my left knee slide out from under me and I collapsed. I heard someone yell “Oh no!” and hit the ground hard.

I knew that I was badly hurt instantly.

So did everyone else.

Players from both teams came over and tried to help me. But I couldn’t be helped. I was just writhing. Physically and mentally. I knew my time was up. I had finally sustained that dreaded knee injury that was always looming. A specter hovering above it all.

I went into shock, and the only reason I know that is because I was constantly in the zone of having to puke, pass out, or poop. My body chose the latter and my teammates carried me to the bathroom. As I sat waiting for my lovely girlfriend Danielle to come to pick me up and take me to the hospital, I just mumbled incoherently to myself as a teammate tried desperately to get my mind out of the spiral it was already in.

As I write this, I am splayed out on a chaise lounge in my living room, knee wrapped in foam and velcro, propped up on a ratty pillow I bought from Target half a decade ago.

I’m not doing great.

I had to cancel a flight to go back down to Baltimore for the Under Armour All-American game. I tried to cancel the hotel but was only given credit on an app. I had tickets to see my Premier League team, Aston Villa this Sunday down in Maryland as well. I canceled all of my plans for the Lake Placid tournament. All told, I’ve lost about a grand because of this injury, and counting. Timing, as they say, really is everything.

But as I sit here, knee throbbing, tears ever creeping to the sides of my eyes, I have to acknowledge that this is a price I’m paying for rewards that I never thought I would get. It was a gift to play for so long. It was a gift to coach my boys to a championship. It is a gift to be able to be this injured and still be able to do my job. It is a gift to have so many people (even outside of my family) actually care that I’m hurt.

When I was in the ER trying to get a diagnosis of how bad my knee injury was, there was a woman overdosing in the next room. (That’s not conjecture, I could hear the nurses discussing it outside of my room.) She softly cried out “Please help me.” Over and over. It was haunting and clarifying.

I get to be sad about this. I get to be angry. But I don’t get to stay that way.

Because I’ve already decided that I’m going to fight all the way back.

But - you already knew that.

Let’s go get an MRI and see how long it’s going to take.