And Then I Heard A Pop
So...the river.
Every year, we play in the Russian River softball tournament, an end of season, very local, small tournament. We have fun with it, changing our uniforms from Badboys Blue to Badgirls Pink, and there's very little pressure. And yet, every year, someone on our team gets hurt. Two years ago, I think it was Don. Last year, Will broke his clavicle bone. This year, ten minutes into our first game, Marcus decided to ignore me coaching him at third base, telling him not to run, but he went for it. Then, I told him he'd have to slide, which he did. When he went down on what appeared to be a good slide, his scream was unmistakeable. The leg, the ankle? We weren't sure. But the way it dangled as we carried him off the field? It was surely broken. And we were down to nine players for the day. We lost the first game, 8-2.
After Marcus was taken to the hospital, Don showed up, hoping to cocah his D team all day, and play with us on Sunday. But we needed him to make ten (ten players on the field means we get four outfielders, very important in softball), so he stuck around. We lost the second game, 7-5. By the final game, we were just spent. Defensively, we were doing well. Offensively, we just weren't hitting the way we can. We played our last game against one of the best teams in the league, The Players, and they outhit us, outfielded us, outplayed us, definitively. We lost that game 12-4. So, with all of the games done for the day (we play 3 Round Robin games to find out where we fall in the bracket on Saturday, then play single elimination games on Sunday), we went back to relax, sit by the pool, drink beers, see how Marcus was doing, and ditch the Badgirls Pink. It was awful.
Sunday, we had to play against the team who had beaten us in our first game on Saturday...all over again. It was like that movie Groundhog Day, where this time we'd hope to get it right. And we did. We hit the hell out of the ball, made great plays, and won, 18-14. Having won that game, we were guaranteed to play at least two more games. If we won the next game (against The Players, again, Groundhog Day), we'd play in the final for first place. If we lost, we'd play for third place against the loser of the game before us. We moved on to the second game confident, happy, fired up. And The Players quickly hit the ball hard, outscoring us, no matter how hard we tried. I was playing right field, catching everything they hit out to me, including a really nice catch past the foul line that I was pretty happy about. We weren't winning, but we were holding our own, and doing okay. A ball was hit out to the right center fielder, so I started to run behind him
to back him up. There was a bit of a dip in the lawn.
One side. You really can't tell how totally swollen it is.
And the other.
My right foot hit the divot and turned sideways under my body weight, and I distinctly heard a pop. I hit the grass hard and cried out. Yeah, it hurt.
I'd twisted my ankle before, back in 2003, but this time it felt a little different. Maybe because I'm getting older. But I was able to put some pressure on it, and I could wiggle my toes, so I had a good feeling nothing was broken.
(We lost the game, but at that point, there wasn't much of a contest.) I contemplated trying to navigate the Napa medical system and how that would jibe with my insurance, but I was too angry at what had happened and frustrated by it all that I decided to stay and see who won. So Fred and I stayed to watch the Badboys, (with 9 players, no less), beat the Renegades and take third place, me cheering and hollering on the bench with a couple of Vicodin and Ibuprofen running through my veins. A couple of beers later, we headed back to the City.
I got 5 x-rays done on Monday and Tuesday, and as far as they can see, no fracture. But my podiatrist also thinks I tore 1 or 2 ligaments in the ankle (hence the reason it's so black and blue), so I'm getting an MRI next Wednesday to see the next step. The pop I heard (he believes) was my ankle dislocating itself, then popping back in when I hit the ground. My doctor is already recommending surgery to repair the damage, which is freaking me out a bit. But, after the financial nightmare that was my appendectomy this year, at least I have no more out of pocket to meet, so if it comes to that, I'm scheduling it.
I hear there's a meme going around, where an LJ user whom I don't know is asking practically half of my friends list (ha!) to post a picture of themselves, right now. So, here's the current state of mind:
Ow.
I was supposed to be go-go dancing on a box at the Lone Star tonight with boyshapedbox. For real. Dancing at the Lone Star.
I was supposed to go dance my ass off to funkybearmartin's set at Fireball on Saturday night.
I was supposed to try and do a rehash of last year's strip-tease at the Eagle for the fabulous bearsgonewild and grassvalleybear.
I was supposed to have a fun weekend of dancing and laughing and walking around.
Instead, the next month and a half is all about RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation), a big boot to immobilize my foot, and crutches that are already leaving bruises in my armpits. I may even be wearing it for Folsom. I don't want to even think about how I'm going to start healthfair season flying with this going on.
Why do I play this game again?
Every year, we play in the Russian River softball tournament, an end of season, very local, small tournament. We have fun with it, changing our uniforms from Badboys Blue to Badgirls Pink, and there's very little pressure. And yet, every year, someone on our team gets hurt. Two years ago, I think it was Don. Last year, Will broke his clavicle bone. This year, ten minutes into our first game, Marcus decided to ignore me coaching him at third base, telling him not to run, but he went for it. Then, I told him he'd have to slide, which he did. When he went down on what appeared to be a good slide, his scream was unmistakeable. The leg, the ankle? We weren't sure. But the way it dangled as we carried him off the field? It was surely broken. And we were down to nine players for the day. We lost the first game, 8-2.
After Marcus was taken to the hospital, Don showed up, hoping to cocah his D team all day, and play with us on Sunday. But we needed him to make ten (ten players on the field means we get four outfielders, very important in softball), so he stuck around. We lost the second game, 7-5. By the final game, we were just spent. Defensively, we were doing well. Offensively, we just weren't hitting the way we can. We played our last game against one of the best teams in the league, The Players, and they outhit us, outfielded us, outplayed us, definitively. We lost that game 12-4. So, with all of the games done for the day (we play 3 Round Robin games to find out where we fall in the bracket on Saturday, then play single elimination games on Sunday), we went back to relax, sit by the pool, drink beers, see how Marcus was doing, and ditch the Badgirls Pink. It was awful.
Sunday, we had to play against the team who had beaten us in our first game on Saturday...all over again. It was like that movie Groundhog Day, where this time we'd hope to get it right. And we did. We hit the hell out of the ball, made great plays, and won, 18-14. Having won that game, we were guaranteed to play at least two more games. If we won the next game (against The Players, again, Groundhog Day), we'd play in the final for first place. If we lost, we'd play for third place against the loser of the game before us. We moved on to the second game confident, happy, fired up. And The Players quickly hit the ball hard, outscoring us, no matter how hard we tried. I was playing right field, catching everything they hit out to me, including a really nice catch past the foul line that I was pretty happy about. We weren't winning, but we were holding our own, and doing okay. A ball was hit out to the right center fielder, so I started to run behind him
to back him up. There was a bit of a dip in the lawn.
One side. You really can't tell how totally swollen it is.
And the other.
My right foot hit the divot and turned sideways under my body weight, and I distinctly heard a pop. I hit the grass hard and cried out. Yeah, it hurt.
I'd twisted my ankle before, back in 2003, but this time it felt a little different. Maybe because I'm getting older. But I was able to put some pressure on it, and I could wiggle my toes, so I had a good feeling nothing was broken.
(We lost the game, but at that point, there wasn't much of a contest.) I contemplated trying to navigate the Napa medical system and how that would jibe with my insurance, but I was too angry at what had happened and frustrated by it all that I decided to stay and see who won. So Fred and I stayed to watch the Badboys, (with 9 players, no less), beat the Renegades and take third place, me cheering and hollering on the bench with a couple of Vicodin and Ibuprofen running through my veins. A couple of beers later, we headed back to the City.
I got 5 x-rays done on Monday and Tuesday, and as far as they can see, no fracture. But my podiatrist also thinks I tore 1 or 2 ligaments in the ankle (hence the reason it's so black and blue), so I'm getting an MRI next Wednesday to see the next step. The pop I heard (he believes) was my ankle dislocating itself, then popping back in when I hit the ground. My doctor is already recommending surgery to repair the damage, which is freaking me out a bit. But, after the financial nightmare that was my appendectomy this year, at least I have no more out of pocket to meet, so if it comes to that, I'm scheduling it.
I hear there's a meme going around, where an LJ user whom I don't know is asking practically half of my friends list (ha!) to post a picture of themselves, right now. So, here's the current state of mind:
Ow.
I was supposed to be go-go dancing on a box at the Lone Star tonight with boyshapedbox. For real. Dancing at the Lone Star.
I was supposed to go dance my ass off to funkybearmartin's set at Fireball on Saturday night.
I was supposed to try and do a rehash of last year's strip-tease at the Eagle for the fabulous bearsgonewild and grassvalleybear.
I was supposed to have a fun weekend of dancing and laughing and walking around.
Instead, the next month and a half is all about RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation), a big boot to immobilize my foot, and crutches that are already leaving bruises in my armpits. I may even be wearing it for Folsom. I don't want to even think about how I'm going to start healthfair season flying with this going on.
Why do I play this game again?