Thursday, March 10, 2011

March 10th, a day that will live in infamy

Every time I see the date, 'March 10', one thing comes to mind.  This is the day I completely crushed my ankle's spirit.  Something about the aesthetic simplicity of 3 10 03 makes it stand out even more for me.  But trust me when I say that the injury itself was enough to make it memorable.

The season was off to a pretty good start at Sac State.  This was my first year with the Hornets.  I came to love the team and my team mates.  Per usual, I made a bad first impression with nearly everyone.  But, the other catcher and I bonded in earnest one day while raking home plate.  The assistant coach was bragging about this ability to hit fungos.  To short stop.  Matt and I weren't listening, but we could hear.  "Man am I good or what?"  Uh, bro, you're hitting two hoppers to short from like right in front of the mound.  My effing philosophy teacher could do that in heels.  So, my response was to sing...

That's right. Loud enough for Wilson and I to enjoy, but certainly loud enough for the coach to hear, I let my song pour forth, "You're the best, around.  Nothing's gonna ever keep you down."  We died, dropped our rakes, and bonded.

Back to the story, March ten rolls around and we're playing some soft team from the East.  Dartmouth, I think.  It was one of the first sunny days of the year and I was fired up.  I was also raging from copious amounts of ephedrine and andro, feeling like Lattimore from 'The Program'.  After hitting a shot to right in the first, I was on base and fired up.  I don't look for signs, by the way.  I think it was Lavier who hit the six hopper to second.  I ran.  At the bag, I couldn't make up my mind on whether to take the guy out, which was against the rules, or slide straight in.  Somehow, through my aggression, following the rules won out.  I slid into the base and my toe caught the bag.  And spun my foot around.  Ouch.

Writhing around on second base I notice the hush in the stands somehow and it hits me that this is serious.  Immediately, the Ivy League middle infielders call for help.  The trainer came out, took one look, made a stern face, and pulled his cell phone out.  Fifteen seconds later I hear, "Ya, an ambulance.  The Sac State baseball field.  Uh huh.  Pretty bad. Hurry."  Hurry indeed.

As I was being carted off, I made eye contact with my pops and told him to bring my dip to the hospital.  And I instructed the ambulatory personnel to get some morphine going.  Stat! 

5 comments:

MamaPink said...

What is it with ball players and chewing? YUCK! Hope the ankle has healed well.

Cwatts said...

Uhh...Ballplayers chew. Especially redneck ones from Elk Grove so I know your old man chews. Did you tell him hi btw?

MamaPink said...

You are absolutely right, but he has gotten better about it. Our oldest now knows what it is and will rat him out to my mother inlaw. LOL. Hit Adam up on FB. :)

Peter Anderson said...

theres a proven correlation between fast-twitch athletes and their pituatary (sp?)glands producing more saliva. plus they dip a lot.

Cwatts said...

I drool and dip. But since getting fatter, my mouth has dried up. Maybe there's something to that.