Philistine

So, funny story:

The subtle, annoying pain in the side of my left foot? Yeah, turns out that would be a broken foot.

I snooped around enough trying to figure out why it wouldn’t go away, and I discovered that:

(Sudden increase in athletic activity) + (Heavy-ish guy running on concrete sidewalk)=Stress fracture of the fifth metatarsal.

Got a “just checking” appointment with my sports medicine guy, who got a “just checking” MRI after he initially guessed tendonitis (because it’s kinda happening on both feet, but only a little on the right).

The next day he calls and says “lol, just kidding, you totally have a broken foot.” He actually used the phrase “this is the worst-case scenario,” which, let’s face it, seems just a little over-the-top.

He then told me that if it was up to him “he’d go in there and put a screw across that sucker,” and that it all depended on “how aggressive I wanted to be.” I told him that I wanted to be more or less the opposite of aggressive to my injured body part (thankyouverymuch), and elected to alternately coddle, flatter, and ignore it until it got better.

There’s a higher difficulty rating here, because apparently there is no blood supply to this part of one’s body, so bones don’t really like to heal down there. This led to him prescribing me an enormous black moonboot, which is far, far less comfortable than a mysteriously and mildly broken foot.

So that’s the fall rugby season.

I’m actually pretty sure the foot was broken before practice started, and is a product of all that damnable preparatory jogging.

I’m bummed.

A friend from work (a loyal Philistine reader and a real-life amateur–everyone’s favorite kind of–comedian) was apparently delighted with this because it gave him a chance to take his “so you’re that guy” routine for yet another walk. I’ve heard this bit a number of times, but it’s getting a lot of play lately. That’s right, he’s that guy. In the last 3 weeks alone he’s put his taxonomy hobby to use in informing me:

1. “So you’re that guy: the guy who shows up at practice with new equipment.” This after he jogged by try-outs. Yes, it was futile to explain that, of course, my rugby shorts and cleats are new, since I’ve never played rugby before, don’t have these things lying about the house, and that, given my income, I’m not going to come out to practice and have to borrow cleats from another player, as some of my fellow rookies did. The shirt was quite old, recycled from work. It was no use: I’m that guy. His punchline was that he “used to love (to hit) that guy.” He didn’t attempt to hit me, though, and–anyway–that’s frowned upon in our workplace. I’m also not 100% sure he ever used to hit anybody.
2. “So you’re that guy: the guy who gets all into a sport and then gets a season-ending injury at the beginning.” I’ll be candid here. I didn’t know that this was “a guy.” He does have some precedent here: we began lifting weights together last spring, and while he was on the treadmill and I was trying to remember all my knee rehab exercises (which included the groin machine) I did something unspeakable to myself on the first day. Well, I did something unspeakable to a part of myself. Much like the foot thing, it didn’t hurt at all at the time. Overnight, however, my pelvic girdle rusted shut in an agonizing mass of crybabyism. Needless to say, I learned to walk using only the bottom half of my legs, as if I had imaginary pants coiled around my ankles, that day. That lasted about about 3 or 4 days, so I wouldn’t call it season-ending, but I take his point.

Fact is: I’ve been careful. Even in the gym, I was explicit about going easy, doing what I could do handily, not pushing things. And with the rugby, I’m convinced I’m paying the piper for trying to get myself in shape before tryouts. It seems like a real-life case of one step forward, two steps back, and that really kind of sucks.

Don’t get me wrong, though: between a devastating family tragedy and a rained-out fishing trip, it definitely only sucks on the latter end of the spectrum, but I am a little disillusioned by this setback. I emailed Coach Sully and he formally (and hilariously) put me on the “injured list” and wants me to continue to come to practices to learn the game for when things are sorted out, which is interesting and weird. Not weird that he wants me to stay a part of things–that part’s swell–but weird to imagine 6-10 weeks of standing around uselessly at the practices of a city rugby club. The hell of it is: I think I might do it.

The club is in New Orleans tonight, and I’m watching “How it’s Made” in bed and writing a post for you gorgeous bastards. The sauce is indeed weak.

In silver lining news, this frees me up to drive 15 hours both ways to practice the old, familiar sacrament of watching the Irish lose football games.

Anywho, I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I’m in kind of a mood tonight. The kind of mood where the only answer is listening to C.S. Lewis’ audiobooks until I fall asleep and dream creepy, Christian, on-the-nose allegorical dreams.

Toodle-oo, friends. Have a great weekend.