Back Again
1930L, Tuesday, 11 March 2008: I worked out at the gym today for the first time since my injury. I was familiar with the darkened parking lot, mooring my pirate truck in her usual berth. Candy, the tall, athletic receptionist, was delighted to see me. I’d received an e-mail from her just a few days ago asking when I’d be back. Her shouts brought Jeff, the clean-cut facility manager, running: he was glad to see me too. He had called me while I was still in the hospital. I related my story once again, but I was glad to see them.
Upstairs half a dozen boxers were working out, all friends. We were glad to see each other too. For years I was the only fighter training Tuesday and Thursday nights (in addition to Saturday mornings), pounding the heavy bags and speed bag to Sinead O’Conner’s I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got - 55 minutes of pounding the heavy bag with just quick breaks between songs is an effective conditioner. Now several people come, though not everyone prefers my music of choice.
For Show & Tell I unwrapped my removable cast (both Jessica and her sister Crystal had signed this after all). Everyone gathered in to see the damage I had wrought, and I told the story again. It was good to see so many friends.
The mixed-up martial artists still aren’t happy with me. The other day I was walking along Maine Street when a carload of them cruised by. One of them was brave enough to roll down his window and yell "Cocksucker!" I suppose if one is a redneck that’s a bad thing to have happen. I’m disappointed in them of course. If they want to use our gear all they have to do is join our program. They could learn much.
Jack is an awesome coach. I’ve been formally training since I was nine, and Jack still has improved my punch over the last three years. A real coach can do that, and Jack is the real deal. Too many martial artists are charlatans; and many more are simply fooling themselves. Generally speaking the fake martial artists are the ones I get along with the worst (no worries, hypnotical, you’re safe with me).
This Monday Doc will inspect my arm again. My right forearm hurts, my swollen right hand is by turns sore or numb, and my fingers are flaky white. Having never broken one of my own bones before I don’t know if this is normal, but I chose a hell of a way to find out.
People whom don’t know me well keep asking if I’m going to sue the YMCA. They’re a good gym really. I’ve no plans to sue them just yet, though my insurance company might sue the YMCA’s insurance company and the ball manufacturer’s insurance company too.
Previously: Recover #1.
Next: It’s Official.
Upstairs half a dozen boxers were working out, all friends. We were glad to see each other too. For years I was the only fighter training Tuesday and Thursday nights (in addition to Saturday mornings), pounding the heavy bags and speed bag to Sinead O’Conner’s I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got - 55 minutes of pounding the heavy bag with just quick breaks between songs is an effective conditioner. Now several people come, though not everyone prefers my music of choice.
For Show & Tell I unwrapped my removable cast (both Jessica and her sister Crystal had signed this after all). Everyone gathered in to see the damage I had wrought, and I told the story again. It was good to see so many friends.
The mixed-up martial artists still aren’t happy with me. The other day I was walking along Maine Street when a carload of them cruised by. One of them was brave enough to roll down his window and yell "Cocksucker!" I suppose if one is a redneck that’s a bad thing to have happen. I’m disappointed in them of course. If they want to use our gear all they have to do is join our program. They could learn much.
Jack is an awesome coach. I’ve been formally training since I was nine, and Jack still has improved my punch over the last three years. A real coach can do that, and Jack is the real deal. Too many martial artists are charlatans; and many more are simply fooling themselves. Generally speaking the fake martial artists are the ones I get along with the worst (no worries, hypnotical, you’re safe with me).
This Monday Doc will inspect my arm again. My right forearm hurts, my swollen right hand is by turns sore or numb, and my fingers are flaky white. Having never broken one of my own bones before I don’t know if this is normal, but I chose a hell of a way to find out.
People whom don’t know me well keep asking if I’m going to sue the YMCA. They’re a good gym really. I’ve no plans to sue them just yet, though my insurance company might sue the YMCA’s insurance company and the ball manufacturer’s insurance company too.
Previously: Recover #1.
Next: It’s Official.