My body aches. The foot, while markedly improved, still twinges here and there. The shoulder blade pinch, likely a repetitive stress disorder, wakes me up in the middle of the night. Gotta see a doctor about that one.
The left pinky, Alas, poor Piglet!, is on the mend, but boy did it smart when that basketball caught it square on the tip and compressed it into a grotesque lightning bolt-resembling, non-finger-like fleshy mass. Not sure which was more nightmarish, the sickly Pop! upon impact, or the resultant Snap! once “self-relocated.” If I catch it on a doorknob just right, it still shoots searing pain through the hand and forearm. Lucky for me, I can type with nine fingers. That came in handy (pun intended) for manhandling (again, intended) heaps of electronic file formatting of PowerPoint presentations detailing tactical maneuvers in the theater of operations.
WARNING: The video you are about to see, while not of me, which depicts a nearly identical finger injury, except his is right, and mine’s left, is graphic in nature. If you have small children in the room, you may want to turn up the volume, press play, and move them closer to the screen for maximum impact.
Just like a surgeon protects his hands, I did the opposite and joined my boy on the basketball court last week for a five on five half court mess of hacking, bricklaying, walking, trash-talking, double dribbling, and general non-basketball-like ineptitude. As Marshall once said, “A man [your] age has no business being on the basketball court.”
I tell you one thing, that boy of mine’s got game. He hung with the big dogs, even when his workydaddy went down, wounded in action. (I know. I know.) And last Thursday, the kid went back for seconds and challenged the same crew from the previous week to a friendly game of 21. And he was sinking regulation free throws! Making his workydaddy proud.
A mere seven years on this mortal coil and already he’s made such an enormous mark. My heart melts for that lad.