Yesterday was the first day in 133 days I
haven’t walked with a limp. At first I
didn’t even realize it. I was on my way
to my office when I thought to myself: ‘Hey… I’m walking! Properly!’ I tested it out… and it was true. I walked around in a circle. I walked up and down the hall. I walked around in a circle again. I even did a little half-assed jig. And about a half-dozen people were staring at
me, smirking. ‘To hell with your judging
eyes… I. CAN. WALK!’
I shattered my ankle playing soccer last
July. Soccer was a big catalyst for the
break-up of my marriage. It’s funny how
the most mundane things can push someone toward the edge. Soccer. Running.
Quitting smoking. All positive
things equaled one big (perceived) negative.
The seeds of my broken ankle and fibula can
be traced back two years ago. My
then-wife was pregnant with Gerry. She
was not having a good pregnancy. She was
near-constantly sick and tired and cranky.
We had not had sex in a few months. We rarely had sex at all since we’d been
living together six years previously.
And ‘making love’? I can’t even
remember. I was rapidly becoming a
veteran of the proverbial sexless marriage.
At this point in our marriage we reached what at the time we didn’t
realize was the death zone; apathy. I
had gone past hating her coldness and manipulative ways and numbed myself to it. But there were times I sincerely missed her
and wanted her (sincere) touch. Looking
back it’s still funny how I could have been attracted to someone who was so
fundamentally uninterested in me after I paid the bills, but hey, that’s the
lug yer readin’ about.
I recognized that she wasn’t feeling well,
but I also recognized that she was using that as a shield against me; it was a
convenient excuse to put her intimate ambivalence on further hiatus… for a
while… or maybe for good.
I made sincere, albeit pathetic and needy
efforts to romance her and cuddle with her, hoping for some real intimacy in
return. There was none. I became increasingly desperate. And one day, things came to a head.
I planned an entire romantic day. Breakfast in bed. Massages in hot oil. Flowers.
Chocolates. Berries. Dinner and (non-alcoholic) wine. From morning to night. And nothing.
Well, there was a perfunctory offer of sex. Which I took like a hungry, belly-crawling
dog. She looked visibly disgusted with
me. I was visibly disgusted with myself.
I couldn’t sleep afterward. I felt so out-of-control. I felt so worthless and undesired and
unloved. And while I think in retrospect
I’d been setting myself up so I’d have permission to feel sorry for myself, I searched
in vain to figure out how a reasonably good looking, reasonably self-assured
and fun-loving guy was reduced to begging and bribing his sick pregnant wife
for a little affection. God, I was such
a douche-bag.
Things could not go on the way they
were. I had to do something. But things had
felt so utterly hopeless.
But there had to be something. There had to be something I could achieve. I decided to quit smoking.
I was a smoker. A heavy smoker. An addicted smoker. I had a love/hate with tobacco. I hated the smell and the money they burned,
the ache in my chest and the feeling that my nerves were rubbed raw with steel
wool when I didn’t have them. But God,
did I love that hit of nicotine. The
head rush, the feeling of pure ecstasy coursing through my veins, the way I
looked as a cigarette dangled out of my mouth carelessly. God, it was love.
But enough was enough. Cigarettes were another instance where I
wasn’t in control. And I was sick of
relinquishing control. So I went to a
doctor’s office, got a prescription for Champix (or Chantix, depending on where
you are from) and within two weeks I was a non-smoker.
And I had felt pride in myself for the
first time in ages. It was intoxicating
to be proud of an achievement.
Addicting. I wanted more!
Like many people I had gained weight
quitting smoking. I was 170 lbs in
January when I quit. I was roughly 40
pounds heavier by the time Gerry was born in April. About a month later, when I settled into the
routine of having another newborn in the house, I decided to go for a run one
evening. I had been vaguely planning to
get back into shape, but never committing.
To hell with it, I said to myself, I’m just going to run and see what
happens.
Annie looked at me with a raised eyebrow, but told me that was wonderful to
hear, and privately expecting me to quit in a couple of weeks.
And with good reason. I had never in my life voluntarily jogged or
ran for anything. I ridiculed those who
did. But there I was strapping on
running shoes, wearing shorts and a t-shirt and jogging around the block. My first run out I ran maybe a half-mile,
stumbled home, barely made it into the bathroom before I threw up my guts along
with about 15 years worth of phlegm and crap that were lying like cement in my
lungs.
But the next night I tied up the sneakers
and did it again. And the night after
that. And almost every night after that
for the next two months. I incorporated
a small workout regimen and slowly but surely shed the pounds off that I had
put on since I had quit smoking. For the
first time in my entire life, I felt in
control. I no longer felt like I was
uselessly reacting to life around me… I felt like I had power over my own
destiny. And what was further, I genuinely
liked myself for the first time in my
life. My astronomically high stress
level plummeted. I slept better at
night. And for the first time in our
marriage, I stopped being passive-aggressive and started being assertive. And I did it all while maintaining my
commitment to my kids.
Annie quickly switched from curiosity to
fear. By her estimation (and she told me
this later) I was getting in shape in preparation to either leave her or cheat
on her. I think that may have been what
she possibly thought, but on a deeper level she felt her control over me
slipping and was pretty anxious as a result.
I attempted to talk to her about the transformation that I was going
through, that while it may have seemed scary, it was ultimately going to make
me a better person, a better husband and a better dad.
Right around this time the World Cup was on
in all of its ear-splitting vuvuzuela-trumpeting glory. I had been a rabid soccer fan before we
started dating, but had pretty much ditched watching it since she showed little
interest in it. But this year, I had
decided to get back into the World Cup spirit.
I bought an England
shirt and watched all the England
games at the pub where England
fans were congregating in the city, an old haunt from back in my university
days. She was more than miffed that I
was doing something without her, but I held fast and reiterated my desire to
have a social activity on my own, and that she was more than welcome to do the
same.
So on goes the World Cup, and England’s generally sucky performance thereof,
and ended with the World Cup final between the Netherlands
and Spain. Annie asked if she could come to the final
with me, and I although I really wanted this to be my time, I thought she did
need a little getaway herself so I was cool with it. She arranged her parents to watch the boys
and we were set to go to the pub and watch the game the next day.
So it’s the next day, Final day, and I
casually ask Annie when her parents are coming over to watch the boys.
After about ten seconds of silence: ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The Cup Final? You said you wanted to go?’
‘Oh, I thought you said you weren’t going…’
‘When did I say that?’
‘Uh… last night?’
‘Really?
Because I didn’t.’
‘Well, you said it wasn’t going to be as
fun without England
in it, so I took that to mean you weren’t going.’
‘Well, I did say that, but I didn’t say
that I wasn’t going to the Final.’
‘Oh… well… I don’t know if my parents can
babysit.’
‘Well, if you want to come with me, you
better find out if they can.’
She phoned them a couple of times, but
there was no answer. I held on as long
as I could.
‘I’m really sorry you misunderstood me
Annie… but I’m going with or without you.
If you get a hold of your parents, then meet me there when you can.’
And I left.
If that all sounds really harsh to you, I never once believed a word of
what she said that day. That little
exchange was a test to see how far I’d stand my ground. In years past I would have folded up and
quietly resented her for it. But not
this time. It was her playing mind
games, pure and simple. She never wanted
to come with me, she didn’t give a shit.
That day was all about an attempt to break this new-found self-respect I
had for myself.
I think this moment was the breaking point
between us. A couple of months later, I
discovered her affair and after giving her ample opportunity to come clean
about it, left.
Workouts were sketchy over the next few
months, but I didn’t allow myself to slide too far out. After a little faltering, I got back on the
horse and continued. And the confidence
in myself continued with it.
Things in the healthy lifestyle realm
continued to be pretty good (despite my beer intake going through the roof),
and this past spring I was looking for another challenge. Soccer seemed like a natural fit. The problem was, I hadn’t played soccer in almost
20 years. I didn’t want to shell out a
few hundred dollars to play league soccer only to find I didn’t have the talent
and couldn’t keep up. I needed a
challenge, but not a foolhardy one.
I was browsing ads on Kajiji one evening
when I read an ad written by a guy named Hector. He had just come in a couple of years ago
from Peru
and was looking for guys to play soccer on Thursday evenings and Saturday
mornings. I emailed him telling him I
hadn’t played since my junior year of high school and was well into my
thirties. No problem, he replied, come
on down.
And I did.
Annie and I were at the sports shop with Nick to outfit him for soccer
and I bought my gear at the same time.
It was merely a case of convenience, killing two birds with one stone,
but I got to admit I did enjoy the surprised look on Annie’s face.
‘You’re playing soccer now?’ she asked.
‘Yep’
“Really?
Wow…’ she said
She was genuinely surprised. And while I’ve (mostly) moved on from Annie,
it was pretty satisfying being able to show her that I’ve been tackling
challenges that a couple of years ago would have been unthinkable.
So that’s how I started playing soccer
after 17 years. And to be honest at
first, it seemed like a horrible idea.
About ten minutes into my first game, I thought I was going to
faint. I was lightheaded and was on the
bubble to jack it in.
But I slowed down a bit and
persevered. After my first game I had to
throw up again, and for a few days, my chest rattled with what seemed like the
last vestiges of the crap that I put into my lungs for so many years. But that passed, and I got stronger every
game. And while I had no illusions about
my ability, I didn’t embarrass myself either.
I even scored a few goals over the course of the summer.
Anyway, we had a Sunday evening game going
in late July, I was playing centre-back and the opposition’s midfielder
threaded a through ball past me right onto the centre-forward’s foot. I sprinted to catch up with him, but it was
clear I wasn’t going to be able to push him off the ball. He looked to his left where a teammate was
bearing down on net, and I was convinced he was going to pass. If I slid, I could cut off the pass. I slid.
I could feel my cleat getting caught in the turf. I could feel my foot wrapping itself up
against my leg and a sound that I could only describe as someone twisting
bubble wrap in their hands.
Something is broken. I lay there waiting for the pain to come. There is no pain, but there is a numbness in
my foot. After about 10-15 seconds, a
couple of teammates look down on me.
Javier, another Peruvian fellow and Alexi, a guy from Russia carry me
off the field and ask what’s wrong. I
tell them I think my foot is broken, but they don’t believe me. Javier gingerly takes off my shoe, wiggling
my foot around while doing it. Now it’s
starting to throb badly. I strip off my
shin guard, which was helping to keep my foot together and the foot flops
uselessly to the side. A collective gasp
erupts from my teammates.
And now it officially hurts.
A guy from the other team offers to drive
me to the hospital, which he does, and gets me there moments before I pass out
from shock. I come to in Emergency where
I’m on oxygen and surrounded by doctors and nurses. They give me Propofol (which the nurses very
aptly call milk of amnesia) and the doctor popped my foot back into place
(which I don’t remember… my sister told me all of this later, except I don’t
remember calling her.) He then sent me
for x-rays which turned up negative for fractures, which the doctor couldn’t
believe. He wrapped up the foot, wrote a
industrial-sized prescription for Tylenol-3, and told me to return tomorrow
morning for a CT scan.
Fast forward to next morning and the CT scan finds no less than 2 fractures in
the ankle bone as well as a fracture in the fibula, and bone fragments lodged
in the joint. Whee. They operated the next day and I spent 5
sucky days in the hospital. And 12 sucky
weeks on crutches. And 6 sucky weeks of
physiotherapy.
But no regrets. I’d do it again… and yes, I’m still planning
to play soccer this spring.
