That’s Gonna Leave A Mark

By: Sean | May 22nd, 2009

“Oh, no! Did you do that playing soccer?”

As we recreational football players get older, I think that we can agree that ~~many~~ most injuries we have the misfortune of suffering are directly the result of the game. That drive we have to win every 50-50 ball never goes away…but the body that goes flying into the challenge keeps getting a little heavier. The hamstrings keep getting a little tighter. The knees and ankles get a little stiffer and take a little longer to recover after our weekend matches. I know that Monday morning when I wake up to go to work, at least a half dozen parts of my body are going to scream in protest. The limp will be gone by Tuesday (Wednesday at the latest) but some weird new bruise will yellow and darken mid-week. I’m fortunate that by the time the next Sunday match arrives, I’m generally ready to do it all over again.

That familiar chorus–”Oh, no! Did you do that playing soccer?”–is in some ways the theme song for my week. I often wonder if my co-workers look at their hobbling, wincing cubicle mate and think, Why the hell doesn’t he stop hurting himself? He could play golf instead! They don’t realize that my scars and bruises are my red and black and blue badges of courage. In some small twisted way, I’m proud of them. They remind me that at 38-1/2 years of age, I still run as fast as I can several times a week. How many other adults can honestly say that? I can still cover 6-7 miles a match and this game keeps me reasonably fit. I have a common interest with about 90% of the rest of the planet and I get to blog about kicking a ball around…and people from all around the world actually read it and feel motivated to add some kick ass comments in the process. That is pretty cool. If that costs an occasional muscle pull and 1000 mg of ibuprofen a week, that’s a fair trade in my book.

We recreational footballers play a contact sport. The slide tackles still come (until I move up to O-40 play, that is) and some of those challenges are kind of sloppy and hurt like a son of a bitch. Frankly, I am thankful that over a playing career of about thirty years, I have only suffered three sprained ankles, three more almost-but-not-quite-sprained ankles, two hamstring pulls, four epic bouts of crippling shin splints, the loss of every one of my toe nails at some point and an eight month long groin pull that only merited a visit to the doctor when I asked my team: “Hey, dudes, should my testicles hurt every time I cough? That’s not good, right?”

Oh, and there was that broken wrist back in high school. How is this for adding insult to injury (literally)? Salem, Oregon circa 1985. My high school derby match. North Salem High School vs. South Salem High School. Vikings v. Saxons. My North had never beaten South in boys soccer–ever–and as a 96 lb. 4′-10 1/2″ midfielder, this was arguably the biggest game I had ever played in. Being a 96 lb. 4-10 1/2″ midfielder with an adolescent physiology, I was playing against 16 – 18 year olds who were bigger, stronger and actually shaved. As I jumped up to win an aerial ball (ha!), I collided with two opposing players and was smashed back onto the ground. Crunch. I could hear the bones in my left wrist crack. The pain was excruciating and, for someone who had never broken anything before, completely unfamiliar. Worse, the referee called me for obstruction and gave the Saxons a free kick. I looked down at my already thin wrist and was horrified to see it…bent…at the slightest of angles. And why the hell wouldn’t it move?! Before I knew it, the other side took their free kick and blasted it into me, which furthered jarred my grotesque limb and sent another wave of pain through my arm. I know it isn’t cool to cry in high school, but I think I started to between hyperventilations. Their center midfielder, the older brother of a kid I used to play with in middle school, looked at my arm. Despite this being the Mother of All Rivalries, the El Clásico of the mid-Willamette Valley, he waved at the official to stop play as I floundered around my position.

Him: “Sean, sit down!”
Me: (Gasping for air and semi-sobbing.)
Him: “I think your arm is broken! Sit down!”
Me: (Making unintelligible sounds akin to Beaker from the Muppets.) “Meep! Meep!”

The referee blew play dead and I staggered off the pitch. My coach ushered me over to my father. “Uh, I think that might be broken.” Dad’s diagnosis took 0.015 seconds. “Yeah, that’s broken. Let’s go to the hospital.” As Seanny got his first cast, the mighty Vikings beat the Saxons 2-0 for the first time ever. I like to think it was because my first half injury motivated the team and rallied NSHS to a “win one for the Gipper” like performance in the second half…but probably it was because I was off the pitch and not giving away free kicks in the midfield.

How about you, Weekend Warriors? Do you have a really good story associated with an ugly injury from the Beautiful Game? Of course you do! Every single one of us has been sprained, concussed, ruptured or otherwise damaged by this sport we love. There’s a reason why the Weekend Warrior crest in the upper left corner includes a bottle of aspirin! I would love to hear your anecdotes and personal recollections. Cheers!