In my head, I take my lumps staving off that last, desperate attack that preserves the win in the deciding game of the Stanley Cup Final.
In reality, it's Monday night skills class and Coach Miles' seeing-eye slapper has found the elusive inch and a half of unprotected knee between my leg pads and thigh guards. Instead of a victory dance, I roll around on the ice like I'm rehearsing for a fire safety commercial.
Such is life for the recreational athlete.
The aftermath of the aforementioned slap shot had me hobbling around my office with my knee trussed up with an Ace bandage and ice pack. It made for a shape only the Elephant Man could love. Invariably, someone always asks, "Are you hurt?"
Duh!
I really don't mind the pain. That's just an accepted part of things. Kind of like being married. But as I've said for some time, "Just like being in the cold, there is no dignity in being injured." I don't care if you were hurt in the process of rescuing dozens of nuns and orphans from the godless hordes, there's no redeeming you from how ridiculous you look jabbing the contents of your desk drawer into your arm cast to get at that nagging itch you've had for the last six weeks. Let's face it, adding
Even with all the advances that man has made in medicine science, unless you lose a limb, you're bound to look pretty darned silly when you get hurt. And while nothing else says manly like getting hurt while playing a sport, nothing else screams "loser!" like knocking over a table because you can't control your crutches. It's almost like there are a bunch of designers sitting around with new medical devices saying, "Boy, wait'll they try and move around in this," and laughing their asses off. Sure you can go out and get a spiffy cover for your cast. You'll look great after you've wiped out a three foot radius of drinks from the bar.
There may be an exception to this though: the eyepatch. Pirates have been romantic figures for years; an eyepatch is almost standard issue for them. Nah . . . how cool are you when you're making your way over to the hottest babe in the room in your best James Bond-saunter when you slam into a series of chairs and a support pillar because you have no depth perception.
Ah, what the hell. Excuse me while I go poke an eye out.
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