It looked like a satanic ritual.
There were ten guys standing in a circle.
One guy was in the middle of the circle, lying on the ground, clutching his right knee, flickering his body back and forth like a suffocating snake.
I was the man in the middle.
The men around me weren’t draining my blood or executing an exorcism. They were my softball teammates. And they were watching me cope with pain.
I hit a lazy ground ball to the first baseman. I was sprinting down the line, trying to beat the fielder to first base. I’m not slow. I run like a gazelle. My 6’4″ chassis is equipped with long legs. “He only needs four steps to get to first base!” my teammates always say. I’ve hustled more than a few base hits into existence.
The ball was drooling down the first baseline. The infielder had to attack the ball if he wanted to get me out; if he waited for the ball to get to him, I would have been safe.
He fielded the ball cleanly, but his momentum was going the wrong way, toward home base. I was going to beat him to the bag. His only chance was to tag me out. He snapped toward me, like a crocodile. I bent my body in half to avoid his tag and lunged toward first base with my right leg.
My foot hit the bag. My knee bent backward, the direction knees aren't supposed to bend. My upper body twisted around my outstretched leg. Every ligament attached to the back of my knee recoiled with violence, tossing my lifeless carcass to the grass.
I grabbed my knee. I knew exactly what had happened. I knew I hyperextended my knee, but I didn’t know the extent of the damage.
I squirmed in the dry dirt like a worm sliced in two. I bent my knee back and forth, trying to convince myself I wouldn’t need surgery. Trying to wrap my head around being on crutches and taking care of two kids. Trying to think of the burden I'd bestow upon my wife and family for the next six months. Trying to ask a god I only believe in when it’s convenient for me for help.
I was helped off the field. I sat on the bench. After a few minutes, the pain dissipated. This was a good sign. I once heard an anecdote regarding injuries that has proven true in my life.
If the pain decreases shortly after onset, then the injury isn't super severe. On the other hand, if the pain increases or stays the same after onset, then you're in trouble.
There was reason to be optimistic, but I'm not an optimist. I thought I tore my meniscus. I don't know if I did. Ortho said the ligaments looked good, so I opted out of internal imaging.
The great Vasili Alexeyev once said injuries make you a better athlete. This quote played on repeat in my head every night after I shattered my foot in 2011. Lying in bed, I felt my heartbeat in my toes. The plaster cast strangled my swollen foot.
“This is a good thing.”
“This is a good thing.”
“This is a good thing.”
I'm glad I don't have to lie to myself like that again.
May the Gains be with you,
Ant