Just over twenty years ago I tore my right achilles tendon in half while playing basketball. It was a “weekend warrior” move, I was told by the doctor, even though I was only 37 and it was a Tuesday. 

It was in every way a comical situation. I wasn’t even playing, just shooting the ball around with friends at my summer camp in Vermont. Suddenly, while driving for a layup, I felt like someone hit me in the back of my right leg with a baseball bat. I heard a snapping sound and I was down on the ground. 

I looked around and no one was there. My friends came over and I notice that I could pull my right foot up but that otherwise it just flopped down. We decided to have someone drive me down to Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Hanover, New Hampshire instead of calling an ambulance. 

Aside from missing the chance to ride in an ambulance, which seemed like it might be fun, as this was not life-threatening, riding in the ambulance would have prevented having the car door shut on my right foot as I lay along the back seat of the Hyundai. 

When we got to the emergency room, I sat in the waiting room for two hours without any pain meds. It would have been a good idea to have at least some Tylenol. Considering they eventually gave me Tamadol, an opioid narcotic, a couple of Tylenol might not have done a lot, but it would have been a start.

Arriving in an ambulance would have sent me straight to a room, I’ve since learned. 

When I was finally called there were no rooms. Tuesdays are pretty dangerous in Vermont, it turns out. Instead they put a bed in the hallway and left me there once they splinted my foot. Surgery was scheduled for the next morning and I was given three options–return to camp for the night, sleep in the hallway, or go to a motel which they would pay for. 

For some reason I chose a motel. And it was a motel, a one-story building with a door that opened to the parking lot. The bed was uncomfortable, especially with my splint, and I had a tough time getting around. I did watch a great documentary on Eminem, so there’s that.

The next morning I had to call a cab to get to the hospital where I crutched around until I found the right department. It’s a beautiful hospital though so the crutching was scenic. 

The doctor then took the spaghetti strands of the two sides of my tendon and stitched them together. He told me afterward it was a bad one but because I was young it would be fine with physical therapy. Oh, and I had to keep a cast on for six weeks before I would be put in a boot for the next six months. 

I was also not allowed to drive all that time. Well, I was told not to. I still drove.

All this to say that this morning I played my first few games of Pickleball. As you might guess, it didn’t go well for this Weekend Warrior. 

Except it is Tuesday again. 

This time I chased a ball in front of me that fell in the kitchen. As I went to bend over, my right quad didn’t cooperate and I started falling. Uh oh.

I took the imminent fall well, though, rolling with it right into the net, which caught my back and kept me from continuing to roll right off the court. 

Unfortunately, I rolled onto my left shoulder and suffered what the doctor later describe as a level one to level two AC shoulder strain. I asked a couple of times what AC stood for but I still have no idea, and at this point there is no way to know.

Except for this thing called the internet.

The doctor told me to take a handful of ibuprofen every eight hours and I’d be fine.

Just kidding–he also told me to ice. 

And also three ibuprofen, not a handful.

And not exercise for the next week.

The lesson here that I take away from all this is: 

Take it easy, Weekend Warrior.

That’s twenty.