Logic And Sports Injuries

In general, guys can be pretty good at long term thinking, but there are some areas where that just isn’t an option, such as dealing with sports injuries.

You see, guys hate getting injured while playing sports, as to them it’s the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says: “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”

Now, I realize this doesn’t make much sense, as injuries are a part of life, but guys and logic sometimes just don’t mix.

Usually, upon incurring an injury, a guy’s first instinct is to ignore it and “play through,” with the worst case scenario being to pause for a moment to “tape it up,” even if that means reattaching their head to their body. Now, as you might expect through the use of common sense, this short-sighted thinking usually makes things worse, and sometimes turns minor injuries into major ones. (There’s that whole logic thing again.) However, just because I’m aware of how preposterous a guy’s line of thinking is here, don’t assume for a moment that I’m immune to it.

For example, during a recent pickup softball game, it came to my attention that my batting ability had degraded over the years to the point where a little old lady swinging a broom would have had a better chance of getting a hit. So, not surprisingly, when I finally did manage to hit a dribbler to the left side, I hurled myself out of the batter’s box with reckless abandon, determined to get a hit, although I must admit that I did briefly entertain the thought of sprinting all the way to my car so I could drive away and not have to endure the shame of lowering myself to the level of trying to beat out an infield single.

Anyway, since I’m no longer in my early twenties, and instead at an age where hurling oneself around with reckless abandon is generally a poor idea, a delicate portion of my body, best defined as the upper inner thigh, decided that it was time to go, and I quote: “POP!!”

At this point, I should have been done for the night, but like any rockhead guy, I immediately decided to “play through,” so as to not let down my team, which had been playing together for almost an entire forty-five minutes and had developed an incredibly deep bond amongst its players, by which I mean I’m pretty sure we all knew each others’ first names.

Reduced to essentially playing on one leg, I immediately became a defensive liability with a range of about one step in any given direction, and I was no better on offense, where my maximum running speed on the base paths was now comparable to that of a turtle on crutches. (In a later at bat, I somehow managed to drive one over the center fielder’s head, and even though it went all the way to the wall, I still almost got thrown out at first.)

Now, I’d like to say that the story ends here, but sadly it doesn’t, as the next night was sand volleyball night, and I don’t miss sand volleyball night for anything, as it’s easily the best sport ever invented, and missing it would be the same thing as walking around with a big sign that says, “I’m a wimp! Feel free to punch me in the face!”

However, it was only a day later and I couldn’t really jump, which, as it turns out, is a major component of the sport. Still, undeterred by facts and logic, I did what any rockhead guy would do, which was ignore all of the warning signs and play anyway.

In my defense, I wasn’t completely reckless in the matter. No, I made sure to take the time to wrap my injured leg for support, like they do in the pros. Not that it helped me to be able to walk or jump, mind you, it just made me feel like I’d taken steps to address the situation. Plus, I got to play with tape, which is always a fun thing.

Anyway, and this is tough to admit, by doing this I’d basically turned into one of those weekend warrior middle-aged guys whose body is crumbling down all around them, and who wear various braces and headbands and mouth guards, and who I always want to shake my head at and say, “Dude, give it up. Go balance your checkbook or something before you end up killing yourself.”

But it was sand volleyball night. Did I have any other choice?

Luckily, I somehow made it through without injuring myself even further, and ever since then, I’ve managed to heal up nicely to the point where I’m almost back to 100 percent.

Still, I’ve learned a very important lesson from the whole ordeal: No more mad dashes from home plate during softball!

Either that or get a little old lady with a broom to pinch-hit for me.