There’s a common piece of advice that simply suggests, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” I’ve always thought that was an uplifting message, until yesterday when life bypassed the lemon distribution and instead handed me a massive knee injury during a basketball game. See photo. I’m not even sure what kind of refreshing beverage you can make out of elephantitis or gigantism, but it’s surely not lemonade.

images/lebron.jpg” width=”124″ height=”93″ align=”right” hspace=”5″ vspace=”5″>Let’s take a look at the knee again. Just to give you a better perspective and scale, I have placed this photo next to one of a basketball. See, people…not only is it as big as a basketball, it’s bigger than LeBron James’ head. Pretty impressive, eh? That bulbous growth under my kneecap is like a headband, but it’s pretty nasty looking. That’s either a busted tendon, or something from the movie Tremors. I’m betting on the former, but hoping for the latter simply so I can move one degree closer to Kevin Bacon.

I admit, it’s gross. When I realized the severity of the problem, I took action. This afternoon, I went to get an MRI. I don’t know if you’ve ever had an MRI, but it takes place in a very small, confined place, and it’s impossible to escape the loud, obnoxious clicking and buzzing sounds. Basically, it’s like a dance club in West Hollywood, only clinicians don’t care about collar popping.

This sense of humor, or attempt anyway, is my way of making lemonade, people. I’m in serious pain. I don’t know what the MRI says, but I’m seeing a doctor in the morning and will know more. My friends here have been unbelievably helpful. I’m incredibly grateful to know them, even if I think their generosity is only an attempt to get some soon-to-be-prescribed pain killers.

Needless to say, I think my basketball playing days are over. I hate to think that, but it makes sense. Athletic people go through life participating in a series of activities that require less and less effort as they get older. For example, they start off playing things like basketball and football. Then as they age, they turn to slow-pitch softball, then church-league slow-pitch softball, then co-ed slow-pitch softball, then shuffleboard, then gin, then dominoes, and then it’s just bitching at the news. I never understood why men traveled that sports path, but now I’m starting to grasp it.

Wish me luck on the doctor’s visit, everybody. I’m pretty damn concerned. If you’re a religious person, please say a prayer that my insurance covers this. But just to be sure, stick a pin in the knee joint part of a voodoo doll.

Categories: Columns