Kickball: The agony of "de-feet"

I am no stranger to pain and sports-related injuries. I watch them happen on television ALL the time. But for some reason, all that conditioning...all that mental preparation is somewhat insufficient when you are faced with the agony of "de-feet" that refuse to hold you in an upright position. 

It was the great middle-school kickball tournament to end all kickball tournaments. There I was, a shining star in right field (where my 6th graders assured me that supposedly no balls are EVER kicked) when suddenly it happened...the wind-up...the pitch...bounce...bounce...roll...connect...wham-o...and the sun was momentarily blotted out.  I frantically scanned the skies as the red rubber missile screamed toward me...what am I suppose to do??? Relying on my driver's ed training from twenty-five years ago, I skirted left, right, left again and through an act of God and gravity, the ball landed squarely in my astonished arms.  I may have over-reacted to this somewhat modest achievement but it may have been, aside from the birth of my two daughters, the single greatest moment in my whole life.  

Unfortunately, but not all that surprising, it only went downhill from there.  With an inflated ego, I then found myself next in line to bat/hit/kick.  I confidently addressed the ball ("Hello there, Ball!"), and then lunged forward with a powerful kick, hyper-extending my knee and collapsing in a graceful, but painful heap on the ground.  My appreciative audience burst into spontaneous laughter and applause as I lay there, staring at the sky, aware that I was in a tremendous amount of pain and might not be able to get to my feet without the ingenious application of simple machines. 

 I admit to feeling an onslaught of conflicting emotions.  Embarrassment as I realized that I'd only managed to kick the ball one and a half feet.  I could call it an intentional "bunt" if a) it wasn't against the rules to bunt and b) I actually knew what a bunt was.  I really need to get hip with the kickball lingo.  I had cheered excitedly for someone's team (My team, "The Homerun Hitters" eventually applied for a new coach) as the student/player successfully kicked the ball, enthusiastically ran to the first base, the ball was overthrown in that direction so the kid then ran to the next base.  "A double-play!  Great job!" I yelled, proud of my sports-related jargon until fifty people corrected my misapplication of terms. Each time I called a foul ball, I spelled it so as not to confuse the players with poultry.  "Learn your homophones," I yelled.  I felt frustrated and dejected that I lack the necessary coordination to walk and chew gum at the same time.  The simple act of kicking a rolling ball incapacitated me. What a loser. I lay there on the ground, feeling helpless and horrified. I wanted to cry in response to the throbbing pain in my leg but knew I had to remain strong for my team. I waved over a player.  "Square up," I hissed. "What?" the confused child responded. "I'm going to brace myself on you to get up...I outweigh you by a thousand pounds so get ready."  The act of getting Mrs. Mosiman to her feet resulted in the child becoming embedded into the ground like a tent peg but we did it.  I received my humiliating round of applause recognizing my great achievement of getting off the field of play to resume the game I'd rudely interrupted with my thoughtless injury as I hobbled to the sidelines.

My former friends and colleagues were a great support.  "You should see a doctor," one said cheerfully, "I bet you have osteoporosis."  When I was escorted into the mysterious room that houses the ice machine, another person brusquely pushed me aside and impatiently remarked, "I see you're new to this so I'll just do it for you," as she efficiently bagged up the cubes, shaking her head over my utter lack of self-reliance. I called Savannah to come get me.  "I'm hurt," I whined.  "Are you "hurt" hurt?" she said, seeking clarification as though I have a tendency to exaggerate situations.  It was quite an emotional blow. When she was finally convinced that my injury was substantial enough to warrant her attention, she arrived and then proceeded to complain about the way I was bracing myself against her.  "Get your hand off my forearm," she snapped unconsolingly  "you're suppose to  bear down on the top of my shoulder."  "I didn't want to pull your hair," I whimpered, trying to show her that, despite the considerable pain I was experiencing, I was still a kind and thoughtful person...unlike her.

I stoically refused to even consider medical treatment.  The last time that happened, I was shoved in a hamster-tube for humans and wasn't looking to repeat that little experiment.  I knew, from my former experience, that this injury too, if treated properly with two rounds of physical therapy sessions and a three year regiment of ignoring the situation would result in a somewhat frightening bout of atrophy followed by a miraculous healing with 80% original mobility.  As he fed me ibuprofen like Tic-Tacs, my husband shook his head, saying that I had two speeds: 2 to 60.  He tried to subtly suggest that perhaps a small, daily amount of physical exercise would reduce the occurrence of injury.  He is so thoughtless and insensitive and I told him so as he lugged me into bed last night.  This morning, I'm better.  I can stand upright and as long as I don't move my knee to the left or right, I feel fine.  I also have to avoid bending my knee.  And as long as I don't swivel a certain way, my knee won't fold like I pushed the button on a collapsible umbrella.  Put me in coach, I'm ready...to stand on the sidelines, not moving my knee to the right or left. Would someone please bring me a hot dog and a Pepsi?