Friday, December 7, 2018

Eight seconds

Eight seconds. I thought about that as I lay on the ground, my knee and leg not in the direction intended.

When I was a senior in high school, I was captain of my soccer team and reputed to be a fine player. Reputed, because I had missed all but 4 games of my junior season with impetigo. Don't ask.

Senior year began with me on the sideline with a sneezing fit. When it subsided, I entered the fray. A goal kick was made, headed my way, I leaped, an opponent leaped, we collided, I fell, ankle broken, season over. Eight seconds, one parabola, and then, poof.

Today was opening day of the ski season at Butternut. No sneezing fit, or actually a few, but none that were debilitating, as debilitating was defined in my unique universe. But a balky back threatened to keep me off the trails. Clearly, I am a fountain of weakness, never more than a moment from placing myself on the DL.

But, early this afternoon, I decided that my case of impetigo redux would not prohibit me from my appointed first day of glory.

I put on my boots, snapped into my skis, after one errant effort, and headed up the mountain.

At the top, I was smooth as silk getting off the chair, and headed into another season of mediocrity. Except I apparently had not snapped into one of the sticks on my feet. As I tried to make my very first turn, only one ski reacted, the other almost immediately detached emotionally and physically from me. I struggled mightily for a few seconds with this state of being and then found I was residing in a foreign state, akimbo, having fallen squarely and heavily on my ego. I heard the scream, almost as though it had not emanated from me.

How embarrassing and humiliating. Forty years into this undertaking, and within seconds, eight seconds, this senior's year  was, I feared, history.

I was with my son and after a minute or two of contemplating a sleigh ride down the hill, I arose, like a baby deer uncertain of remaining upright. Being incredibly stupid, three runs later I concluded skiing and headed to ski patrol.

There I was assessed by none other than my wife, who, after internally shaking her head at her sorry excuse for a husband, gave me some TLC, some ice and some ski patroller instructions.

I spent the balance of the afternoon at home with RICE (rest, ice, compression and elevation). I hope that the sizable bump and swelling on the outside of my knee is more a figment of my imagination than a declaratory statement.

Tuesday I head to the orthopedist for some answers. But for now I am left to ponder that goal kick and the time it took for my soccer season to go from start to finish.
  •  I now fear I shall forever more be deservedly saddled with the moniker "the eight second man" (don't even go there. I know what you are thinking)


Anonymous said...



Anonymous said...

Lol, I actually almost went "there" but decided not to

Anonymous said...

glad you called it a ski hill not a ski mountain, pathetic.

Robert said...

I hope you meant pathetic in an ironic sense.

Only I get to mock my own glaring inadequacies.

Unknown said...

Oh well, there goes Colorado. 😈

Robert said...

I am suddenly feeling much better. What time does the flight to Colorado take off (in my dreams)?

Anonymous said...

Only you could capture it all and retell with such eloquence!



Anonymous said...

ROFL so hairdo can hardly say I am sorry..