The Ankle Sprain of Doom

It was bad.  Real Bad.

I’ve added “teaching” P.E. to my repertoire of talents and figured I would try to regain the athleticism of yester-year (basically pre-back surgeries).  There was a time I would take part in the pick up basketball games after Sunday evening church during the summer.  Old skewlers might remember my Loy Vaught 15-foot jumper that was just money in the bank (well, banks back then).  I’m no Michael Jordan.  I’m more of a poor man’s Lebron James.  Very poor man.  Okay, okay, I’m a lot closer to Smush Parker, but that’s beside the point. 

Basketball in P.E. was my chance to get back into shape and relive some of my youthful glory.  It took some time to get my touch back.  My ball handling skills are embarrassing, my post game can use some refining (except for when I’m backing down a 4′11″ seventh grader–I can school them all day!), but my jump shot … ever heard of Reggie Miller?  Just wondering.  Anyway, when I first got going, it was nothing but net.  It wasn’t going through the hoop, just grazing the net.  Then I progressed to hitting the backboard.  But I’ve improved.  I’m probably hitting 15% of my shots now!  Hey, that would get me into the WNBA.  Only, I’m too pretty.

In the midst of my basketball comeback, tragedy struck!  Wednesday, February 18th, I suffered the Ankle Sprain of Doom.  I was fighting for position down low when an errant shot clanked off the rim.  I went up for the rebound only to come down on a Jr. High maggot’s foot.  But this was no ordinary Jr. Higher.  Tyler is Sasquatch Maggot.  He has size 13 “feet”!  I put the word feet in quotes, because they are more like tug boats.  Well, I didn’t land square, slid off and rolled my ankle.  I let out a blood-curdling scream.  It was so loud, pitiful and ridiculous, the guys thought I was joking around.  They continued playing basketball around me as I writhed on the ground in agony.  Finally, someone figured out I wasn’t joking and they helped me get to a bench to sulk in disbelief.

“This is so stupid!”  I said over and over again.  “Stupid, stupid, dumb, retarded, stupid…”

I was a picture of peace and serenity as my ankle swelled to the size of Barry Bonds’ head.  I knew it was bad.  Even wondered if it was broken.  By day’s end, the swelling had reached around to the inside of my foot, and down to my toes.  The next few days brought bruising that could most accurately be described as gross.  The other day I showed off my badly injured foot to some of my teens.  An encouraging chorus rang sweetly in my ears:

“Ewww … that’s gross … aw, sick … is that gangrene?”

Most of my foot–down to my toes and even a good 3-4 inches up my leg–was a deep, dark purple.  If you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you would think you were looking at Barney.  Well, more than a week later, it is still a bit swollen and quite bruised.  I’m still hobbling around on crutches.  I could put a little bit of weight on it, but I don’t think Barney is ready for the full force of two hundred pounds of sheer muscle.  But it’s getting there.

It’ll be no time before I’m back on the court breaking ankles.  Hopefully, not mine!