Posted on August 28th, 2008If Torn Ligaments Could Talk
It was the best of times. School was just back in session. The sun was shining, girls were looking their best, and I had never been in better shape. 3 months of nothing but work and late nights with my brother at the gym had ensured that. I was ready for this moment. I had waited 3 months for it. When you love something as much as I love basketball, it gets into your soul. You eat, sleep, and breathe it. When you can’t play pickup ball with good competition for over 3 months, it eats at your heart. It’s all you think about. So when it was finally time to check up, you better believe I was ready.
I got out of the gate a little slowly, but that was to be expected. When you do a majority of strength training for a period of time, it takes you a few possessions to get your first step back. But what I might’ve lacked in savvy, I made up for in heart. Every single play, breaking my neck over every rebound, every loose ball. It didn’t matter that my team fell down early. We battled back and won. I shut my defender down. Ball denial all the way. It didn’t matter that he was one of my best friends. When you step between those sidelines, there are no friendships. This isn’t about being cool and hangin’ with the homies. This is war. This is I am better than you, and I will damn sure prove it, right here, right now. So we won the first game, of course. I had a few buckets here and there, and I could tell my J was a little off, but every time I drove to the rack I felt better. Those 15 extra lbs of muscle I had tacked on during the summer? Flowing effortlessly towards the rim. Think you’re standing in my way? Good one. AND one. Eat it. Hack me all you want. The look of amazement on kids that, just 4 months earlier were stripping the rock out of my hands with ease, was great. It was a testament to every night I had spent at the gym, instead of with friends. Every night I was under the bar, instead of at the bar. Sure, being ripped as f**k was nice, but that’s not why I did it. I did it for these moments. For the “two defenders bounce off me in mid-air, and I still convert the layup” moments.
Game one was a wrap. I was winded, but that was expected. My heart was beating a million times a second, but that wasn’t because I was tired. Nah. Quite the opposite. I couldn’t wait to get back out. So when we rounded up another 10 and went back onto the court, I was ready. I was getting my first step back. Hesitate…one dribble…right by you. Straight into the lane. Past three or four reaching hands, 1-2 step towards the rim, finish strong. Teammate misses a layup? I’m right there. Back and forth, getting closer and closer to game point. We’re down 1, their rock, they have game point. We need a mother f**king stop, RIGHT now. It’s not me. It’s the animal inside me. It’s the monster that won’t let me lose. Ever. So what then? Steal the inbounds. Length of the court, over an outstretched hand that should’ve easily out-jumped me and pinned me on the board. Not this time. Not when we need points like we need air. Off the glass softly, tied up. No time for fist pumps, not yet. Back down the court, pressure D. Force a bad shot and here we go. Our ball, game point, put up or shut up. I don’t take the last shot because I don’t need to. Because when my teammate pushes a baseline jumper a little long and it goes off the rim, I’m the one right there. No need to come down with it. Two hands, off the glass. Buckets. Ballgame. Don’t call it a comeback, cause my heart never left, but I’m officially back now.
Or so I thought. Next game. Competition is a little light, but that’s cool. Still go hard, because you never know who is watching right? Besides, if I wanna make that JV squad in two months, I need to be able to go LeBron on whoever, whenever. So I push hard. My new teammates take my lead and push with me. We’re cruising along, just as I am. Defensive rebound, quick look ahead, spin, and take off. Down the left side, full speed. About the free throw line start to dive towards the rim. Sense the defender on my hip, it’s fine. I’ll just jump through him (or over him). Plant.
One.
Two.
Left.
Right.
Cept it wasn’t Left, Right. It was Left, Right, Pop. Limp. Fall.
Fade to black.
Agony. Not the pain. Pain means nothing. Agony because the pop that I felt in my knee is like nothing that I’ve ever felt before. I’ve rolled ankles, tweaked hamstrings, groins, even fell onto a basket support and practically stabbed through my thigh. Pain is manageable. Agony is knowing, without question, that you just tore your knee apart. It doesn’t matter what anyone says. It doesn’t matter what WebMD, your friends, or your doctor’s initial analysis says. In that one moment, when you go from the top of the world, to the bottom of your own personal hell, you know.
Three letters, then another two more words for good measure.
A
C
L
Meniscus / MCL
All torn.
Everything you had worked for. Every single drop of sweat…blood. Every tear. Gone. In a heartbeat.
No longer are you working towards slapping three plates on a bar. No longer are you bored with dunking off one leg, and trying to get something cool off the backboard down. Or going baseline and planting off two. Squatting? Deadlifting? Please.
Try straightening your knee out. Try walking without a noticeable hitch, even if it means sending shockwaves through your knee saying What in the hell do you think you’re doing? That’s what you work for now. That’s what your personal goals are. Stretching. Gee, someone get me a medal, I can straighten my knee, and bend it back a lot. Joy.
Welcome to my own personal hell. I get to enjoy limping around for 2 weeks, then some fancy doctor gets to cut my knee apart, rip a part of my Patella off, and re-create a new ACL. As if he was God.
If torn ligaments could talk, what would they say? More importantly, if my torn ligaments could talk, what would they say? Easy. Same thing my primal nature says. Same thing that keeps me ticking, even when things seem, hell, better yet, ARE impossible. Same thing that’s responsible for me being the crazy mother f**ker that I am. The same mother f**ker who will continue making people shake their head in amazement and disbelief. B*tch I’m me.
Time to go to work…
I’ll be back, stronger. With a new ACL and some new screws in my knees to match. Titanium is strong. Put that with my heart and it’s about to get scary. So enjoy winning pickup games while you can. Enjoy going to the rack because someone is too lazy to step in front of you. Enjoy getting off jumpers because no one wants to throw a hand up. Enjoy feeling strong in the weight room because I’m not runnin’ around with 2x6’s slung over my shoulder and chains wrapped around my neck. B*tch I’m me. I’ll be back. And that same heart and determination that scared the s**t outta people before is about to be multiplied exponentially.
Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.
