A split second of misfortune and my goal scoring days are over. My once dense and vascular thighs are now rapidly wasting under the strain of disuse. Luckily for my opponents, they will not have to face my lightning quick feet, inch-perfect threaded passes and net busting long range shots.
But on
a serious note, I am very quickly regretting stepping out onto the AstroTurf
that night. A quite literal twist of fate has shredded my left knee, leaving it
bruised, painful and depressingly redundant. Just over a fortnight in, and it
doesn’t seem to have gotten any better. Oh joy.
I’ve
had three different predictions on what it could be so far. For the uninitiated
in all things football injuries: an MCL (medial collateral ligament) tear; a
patella tendon tear, and perhaps more worryingly; an ACL (anterior cruciate
ligament) rupture. Two weeks has felt like two months on crutches, helped in no
small part by the requirement of getting into work – where I started just four
days after the injury with such excellent timing.
Luckily
for me it is only in Dartford, and allows me the nostalgic pleasure of being
dropped off and picked up by my dear sweet mother. Packed lunch in hand and soggy
peck on the cheek, I hobble into the office with wounded knee and dented pride.
As marvellously understanding as they have been, it doesn’t much help my concerns
as to how it must look.
Several
painkillers and withered quadriceps later, I’m sitting in Starbucks nursing a
Praline Mocha (product placement in the hope of freebees) and reliving that
fateful moment when I heard a crack and screamed like a girl that has just been
walked in on while taking a shower. When my bandy leg buckled on that chilly
November evening, I actually couldn’t believe the timing of such a horrific
injury.
I had
been out of work for exactly three months to the day, and I could have done it
at any point prior. Instead, and according to the law of the Sod, an innocuous
shoulder-to-shoulder challenge forced me back onto my standing leg and shredded
everything from my thigh to my (now fat) ankle.
It is
utterly black and blue and almost constantly agonising, so my sympathy for many
a colleague that has suffered similar injuries is instantly massive. Even
greater is my appreciation of the frustration that professional athletes must
feel, having to sit around waiting for nature to take its course.
As luck
would have it, my footballing ability is minimal. It still doesn’t help though,
as I love to pretend that I’m amazing of a Monday, Thursday and Sunday. I would
imagine that the several defences playing in the North Kent Sunday League breathed
a heavy sigh of relief when news filtered through of my season-ending injury.
They would be silly not to, wouldn’t they?
