Good evening. Given the promise I made several days back, I find it almost an obligation today to update my blog once again. Hopefully, the zest doesn't fizzle out like crowds in a gym from January 3rd to January the 15th. Then again, I am hardly confident of it not fizzling out. Just doing my best while I am doing it.
Today is an Arsenal matchday. When it really comes down to the game, after all you've read and built-up to the games, watching your team play is almost insufferable. Probably down to the fact that you are so emotionally involved and intertwined in the fortunes of the team that anything other victory is a hard pill to digest. It is the ever so rare, comfortable victories that are really fun to watch; pre-match jitters even before games against supposedly weaker games can get you sweaty and praying. Not ideal in any world. Perhaps writing about these pre-match jitters will soothe them, or else aggravate them. Bring it down to the bare bones though, and my attitude is "as long as Arsenal win this evening, I don't really care".
A couple of months back, when life was gushing swimmingly past and everything seemed rosy, an incident occurred which in my opinion, should be made an example of and the Oxford English dictionary should employ it as the standard in their definition of the word "nuisance". Basketball in hand, I was confronted by an opponent and looked up to find no one to pass to. Not an overly gloomy situation, it was a friendly game, nothing at stake and I could try a couple of tricks and flicks until space cleared up or a teammate offered himself for a pass. I went for a rather simple maneuver, dribble to your right with ball in left hand, and immediately switch hands, direction and gears; quickly dribble to the left with your right hand to leave your opponent, if not beaten, then at least a step behind and then assess your options.
The dribble to the right worked well, the swivel was executed in one swift motion and my feet switched rapidly to carry me right and before I knew it, the ground, wet from rain, seemingly offered no friction and my left leg slipped to leave me sprawled on the ground. I thought I heard a crack in my knee, but the pain was hardly intense. I hobbled off the court (to the delight of the waiting substitute), with a mind to sit for a few minutes, slowly jog, run off the little bruise and continue playing.
In hindsight, it wasn't the brightest thing to do. Not playing on. Playing in the first place. The rain had just stopped, the court still damp at several places. Puddles were present sporadically. And then not only did I play, I injured myself and played on.
Now I'm stuck with a Grade 1 Signal Injury to the Posterior Horn of the Medial Meniscus. Classically, this injury was called a crocked knee, but with all the fancy MRI, X-ray stuff that they put you through, they were probably forced into giving even the injuries fancy names befitting the methods of diagnosis. Apparently, the ol' "twist it and see if it hurts" is out of fashion.
My vendetta against these MRI machines is inspired by being ordered to stay motionless for a half hour inside a half cylinder shaped, small vessel which sounded like Planet Earth being invaded every few seconds. At the end of it, you're given some diagrams which only the Radiologist can make any sense of, after which you feel lost and frustrated. You're the one with the bad knee, and here is everyone speaking Latin, writing Latin and even making fuzzy black and white diagrams in Latin. My hairline probably receded an inch during this whole ordeal.
When my orthopedist finally translated all that transpired into a mix of English and Kannada, the prognosis wasn't overly tragic. A couple of months with no jumping, running etc., some physiotherapy and muscle strengthening and soon I will be strong enough to play basketball and go trekking. Now I've taken to playing Table Tennis, the one sport which I can play while almost only standing, and I'm quite enjoying it. Turns out I'm half-decent at it too.
Cheerio