The Too Old Timer Rant (A.K.A. The Old Timer Rant Part Two)

Since the beginning of July, as I first wrote about in last month's Old Timer Rant, I've been immersed in a 6-days-a-week sports regiment (ball hockey, lacrosse, basketball and 3 days of soccer), which I've been absolutely loving. However, this week, out of nowhere, I was suddenly blindsided by an unexpected seventh day and I've gotta tell ya things are no longer looking quite as rosy for me. In fact, now, believe it or not, I can no longer even walk to the fridge to get a beer, let alone run around a field. Though, thankfully, I can still hop.

You see, what happened was my team figured we should start practicing for the upcoming fall-winter-spring soccer season, which begins in just three and a half weeks from now. And that's fine for all those out-of-shape guys who've done nothing but drink and Bar-BQ all summer long, but what about me and my one day of rest per week? Did anyone think of that? Obviously not!

And so there I was out on the field Tuesday night practicing with the team when, bang, I blew out my leg. It felt like someone had thrown a rock and hit me in the back of my calf... as I crumbled to the ground in pain. It seems I'd torn the gastrocnemius muscle. Or so I'm told. And the gastrocnemius muscle is the largest muscle in the calf. So, as you might expect, without the use of my leg I'm now on crutches and, if I try to put even the slightest bit of weight on my foot, in pain. I'm what was once called crippled, but I suppose would now be referred to as movement-challenged. Yes, I'm hobbled, I'm lame, I'm sidelined, and I'm maimed. Hell, I'm virtually incapacitated.

"You bloody fool, Mike! What did you expect?", some may say. Such people might even go as far as to claim that it's my own damn fault for playing every single day of the week. However, as any logical, rational, free-thinking person would clearly agree, that's just scapegoating. Obviously it was my team's fault. If they simply hadn't called a practice on my day off I'd still be healthy, fit and ready to go. Or maybe it's my mom and dad's fault for not supplying me with strong enough genes. Or Barry Bonds. It's got to be Barry Bonds' fault for making it all look so easy, but failing to inform me that the body sometimes needs a little extra help.

Regardless of who's to blame, there's just no way to deny that, for now at least, I've simply got to say so long to lacrosse, farewell to ball hockey and goodbye to both basketball and soccer. And, yeah, obviously I'm a bit down about all this. I mean, what do you expect, I do like my sports; I do like playing with my son, Kaishan, of course; I do like drinking beer without worrying about the consequences when it comes to the unrestrained growth of my beer belly; and I really do like being able to, you know, walk and all. But, I guess, like the song says, you can't always get what you want.

Both Jack, my friend, teammate and doctor, who was there on the field when it happened, and Cathy, my physiotherapist, who I saw yesterday morning for a treatment, said it'll be 3 to 6 weeks till I'll be out on the field again. That's a bit hard to take, of course, because going from 6 days a week to 6 weeks of nothing is simply not that easy to comprehend, accept or deal with.

Anyhow, they can say 3 to 6 weeks all they want, but I know I'll definitely be ready in 3 for the beginning of the season on September 9th. Jack and Cathy possibly might not back me up by guaranteeing my full recovery by then, but I do think there's one thing the three of us can definitely all agree on and that's that there's only one "sport" I can still play right now: Poker.

So, yeah, even though I don't think it's really justified, you can go right ahead and call me Over The Hill, Brokedown Engine, Very-Old Timer, The Decrepit Dilapidated Debilitated Dude, F.U. Man (Feeble Unfit Man), or even "Grandpa", just as long as you also call me when I've got a royal flush.

See you all out on the, uh, table.

Oredakedo (Mike Cowie)
Thursday, August 16th, 2007