The Moment I Realized I Wasn’t 22 Anymore

It sounded like a gunshot.

A loud “pop” erupted so quickly and unnaturally that there’s no way it could have come from my own body. It echoed off the walls of the indoor soccer arena for all to hear.

It was so freaking loud. It had to be some kid’s toy or something.

But as I fell to the ground in slow motion, lightning shards of pain engulfed my foot. I knew then that the sickening sound must have come from my ankle. Before I could scream, I started feeling more pain in my hip. My entire body weight had collapsed onto just one tiny part of itself and I writhed on the turf in agony.

Did I stop the goal? That was my first thought.

Obviously this would subside in just a few seconds. I mean, I’m only 29 and I’ve been falling down for years. I’m a damn professional at being a klutz. I’m used to falling down. The pain always last a few seconds and then recedes.

But something funny happened this time. The pain got worse.

Professional Klutz

I’m used to cascading down staircases and tripping over invisible holes on the linoleum. The short-term pain that inevitably follows these feats of futility – rolled ankles, bruised shins, scabbed knees – are commonplace to me these days.

In high school, while others clamored to be voted “Most likely to succeed” or “Best eyes” in our yearbook, I was regrettably nominated “Biggest class klutz” – unanimously.

Supposedly I have so much scar tissue in my ankles that I will always roll my ankles at the slightest tweak, according to my doctor. Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise, because I’ve never suffered a major sprain or injury lasting more than an afternoon. I just keep rolling.

Toy Story’s ‘Woody’ can pretty much sum up my life: “That wasn’t flying, it was falling with style.” Yep, I’ve been there.

Indeed, when it comes to an ill-timed plummet off a misplaced curb, I can make that unplanned barrel roll look like a thing of beauty. I’m used to it, after all.

But last Tuesday was different.

Nothing had prepared me for slamming 230 out-of-shape pounds onto my unsuspecting ankle.

Never the athlete

I learned early on that if I wanted to be involved with competitive sports it would require a clipboard or camera. I’ve been a coach, photographer, writer and editor. That’s not to say I haven’t played on any successful teams.

There’s been coed kickball championships. Softball game homeruns. Not to mention a few indoor soccer goals sprinkled around.

What’s more, I’ve spent over a decade coaching youth sports. Last summer I took a ragtag group of middle-schoolers that had no business playing post-season and won the District Championship. So I know my way around the game, to say the least.

But through it all, I’ve been steadfast in one small belief: conditioning is something you do after shampoo.

Stretching? Please. I can barely tie my own shoes and I’m just fine.

Jogging? I’m on Team Ron Burgundy: “I believe it’s jogging or yogging … I’m not sure but apparently you just run for an extended period of time.”

After all, I’m in my 20s. The soccer field and kickball diamonds are my canvas. My body? The paintbrush.

Before today, I’ve never been injured. I’m like a pudgy Cal Ripken.

“Don’t be mad…”

As I lay thrashing about the soccer turf (turns out I did block the goal just before halftime), I now only thought of one thing: My wife is going to kill me.

You see, last spring I broke the first bone in my life.

It was baseball practice for my Little League team and they were attempting diving catches, my absolute favorite thing about baseball. After a few rounds I thought, “What the hell? Time to show them what this is supposed to look like.”

I tossed the ball to my assistant coach and ran a nice route. I was wearing a monster catcher’s mitt and didn’t think anything of it. The ball came arching across the field and I leaped out in full stride, arms outstretched with my body completely parallel to the grass.

The ball hit my glove. My body hit the ground. My body slid across the grass while that massive catcher’s mitt got wedged underneath.

Snap.

There goes my wrist. I knew it was broken immediately.

But the kids were jumping up and down and yelling, amazed at seeing their coach jump so far and nearly making the circus catch (the ball fell out in the landing). I jogged back sheepishly. I could barely lift my hand under the weight of the glove.

But I had to try again.

I snagged one of their smaller, lighter gloves and ran another route. As the ball came flying ahead of me I jumped again. There was nothing close to grace this time around and even though my hand hit the ball once more, I fell to the ground in disgust. I couldn’t even muster the strength to close the mitt. What’s worse, I rolled over it again.

If it wasn’t broke before it definitely was now. I sped off to the ER.

Sitting in the waiting room I had no idea what to tell my wife. She isn’t exactly a fan of baseball so telling her I injured myself coaching was going to be a real barn-burner. I decided to text her the bad news: “Don’t be mad, but I might have broken my wrist…”

She took it better than I thought.

And it wasn’t my wrist; just a small bone in my hand.

Like a wounded polar bear

It took two guys to lift and help me off the field. One of them said he nearly puked when he heard the pop from my ankle (I told you it was loud!). My hip throbbed. My ankle burned. My pride was all but distinguished.

We still won the game and somehow I made it home. My wife helped me from the car and into our place and I nervously expected the familiar bomb to drop: “I told you so!”

But it never did.

She took care of me and helped me get situated with ice, a heating pad and dinner. Turns out, a subliminal bomb can be much worse. While she never came out and said it, I felt the unmistakable and all-too-familiar vibe, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”

Ouch. I had no idea not saying anything could say so much.

It’s now been two days and I’m hobbling around like a wounded polar bear. Each aching step is but a throbbing reminder that I’m limping toward 30. I’ve dreaded this reality for years, but it’s officially happening.

Yes, I’ve got the body of a 30-year-old but my mind is stuck around 20 and my knees are closer to 40. It’s time to start listening to my wife, my mom, my grandma, my cousins, my uncles and pretty much everyone else who knows me.

I’m not 22 anymore.