By Saturday afternoon it had become clear that my knee wasn’t going to be sufficiently recovered to allow me to play in today’s soccer game. I wasn’t about to let my body to give me no for an answer; I’d been looking forward to this game for seven weeks, had spent too much of the season injured.
I pulled a Brett Favre.
In the twelve hours before the game, I took ibuprofen and hydrocodone in an effort to alleviate the pain. It worked. To combat the drowsiness these two drugs produced, I consumed a large quantity of caffeine. It worked.
Before the game I warmed up tentatively. Though jumping was painful, I felt I could play the game and help the team. And I did. For fifteen minutes. Then my knee gave out and, through the barrier of drugs I had erected, came a stabbing pain.
My actions leading up this point were foolish, but to my credit I did the right thing and yielded to my body. Cheikh finished the game in the net and did a fine job. I limped around the sideline and cheered the team.
I find that I like goalkeeping now that I’ve had a taste of it. I’d like to play keeper for the FC Saints in the spring, if possible, but I cannot help the team if my body is not strong enough to resist injury. My goal this winter is to become more physically fit, not only continuing my weight loss, but also building strength in my legs.
Meanwhile, I’ve got to do something about this knee. The hydrocodone and ibuprofen have worn off and the knee is causing me a lot of pain.
I’m so stupid sometimes: I thought I was being clever by deceiving my body so that I could play, but I was only being an idiot.
I’m going to miss soccer. I’m also going to miss the post-game bridge games that Mac, Pam, Joel, and I have had the last several weeks.
Still, I’ll have more free time now.
On 12 November 2002 (07:11 PM),