THE OUTRIGHT *PAIN* OF SOFTBALL

These are not just empty words...these are my thoughts.

Don't worry. It not that serious. I just wanted to let anyone who may think differently that, whatever I write on this weblog, I put my time and thought (and sometimes soul) into it.

This time--not much soul.

My co-workers at my company got a softball team together. C-League, I believe. It's kinda like A-ball in the Majors. I think we should call ourselves The Gashouse Gang. The 1930s Saint Louis Cardinals were nicknamed that, for what reason, I'm not sure. I just figure it fits. We work for the gas company, thus "Gashouse." "Gang?" Self-explanatory.

I'll be Ducky Medwick. Or one of the Dean brothers, either Daffy or Dizzy (probably more apropos). Today was our first practice.

It was about what you'd expect. There were a lot of missed catches, a lot of errant throws. One thing that was in our favor, however, was that some of these guys can really crush the ball. I mean, like, over-the-fence power. We work hard, we develop muscles, we hit softballs really really far.

Unfortunately, we aren't all athletes of the highest caliber. Some of us are a little out of shape. (Me included.) I lost the first few fly balls hit my way, due to--I assume--the fact that I had not my eyeglasses; they were misplaced on Sunday, along with a couple of birthday checks. Another factor in my early fly ball misjudgement was the fact that I really have not played the game for about 10 years. It takes an adjustment period, you know? Eventually, though, my fielding came back to me and I was able to judge the trajectory of the softball more efficiently. I made a few good grabs.

The problem came, though, towards the end of practice. I had been in the outfield the whole time, save for the period in which I was belting the balls from home plate, and so I was getting tired...and a little careless in my outfield cantering. The field was not pristine at all. There were dips and sways in the outfield, valleys and peaks.

On one monster hit by a teammate, the ball sailed way the fuck over my head and skittered across the basketball court, about 350 feet from home plate. I tiredly loped after it and--bam!--my left ankle twisted in a "field divot" and I heard a sickening pop/crack. Oh. Oh, the pain. I thought I had broken it, at first. The pain gave way to unnatural warmth and I limped to the ball.

"You all right, Adam?" Brian called.

"Yeah," I said, "I think so. Just turned the ankle a bit. But I heard it crack, man." I limped towards him and soft-lobbed him the ball; the fight was out of me. First practice?! Injured already?! Fuck that noise, man.

I limped out of the outfield and over to the bench and I watched the last 10 or so minutes of practice.

After practice mercifully ended, I had a few of the guys asking if I were all right. I thanked them for their concern, but I pretty much brushed it off. I wanted it to be not a big deal. Ankles get popped, they get twisted, torqued, sprained, strained. I have had it happen many times before, while playing basketball. You come down on a guy's foot--bop!--there goes the ankle. This time, however, I was a more than a little concerned. (For many reasons, most of them work-related.) At least when it first happened, and I heard that pop and felt that searing pain. The pop/crack was the thing that got me. That didn't sound good, I'd said to myself. That sounded like I broke my fucking ankle. Well, no. I could walk/limp on it, the pain was not excrutiating--I figured I was good. Not great, but good.

On the way home, I got myself an ankle brace and some pain-killers and some Icy Hot cream. I have not been as fastidious as I should be on the keeping the ankle iced thing, nor have I followed the R.I.C.E. home therapy (rest, ice, compression, keep it elevated). In fact, I've done none of that. Oh, sure, I pressed a cold-pack to it for a while, but the rest of R.I.C.E? No.

My ankle is cracking, now, whenever I move it in a certain way. The pain is not overwhelming, no, but the outside of my left ankle bone looks as though someone has sewn a golf ball underneath my skin. The right side of the ankle is whence the pain radiates and the left is swollen like a dude's stomach at a steak-eating contest. I reckon the bruising will start tomorrow.

Been there, done that. It's just a simple (painful) ankle sprain. It'll heal. But I don't think I'll be playing hockey on Saturday, like I had been planning to do. Hockey entails a whole hell of a lot of sharp cuts and stops. I reckon I'm not going to subject my ankle to that madness. Hell, work itself will be tough. There is no sense in being nonsensical about the matter, you know? So my body let me down. What of it? I'm not Superman. Everyone knows that, right?

I'm just pissed that the start of the season, in two weeks, may be a bit of a nail-biter. After the first fucking practice. Damn.

Peace and love to you all. And, yes, those are heartfelt sentiments.