9.12.11

…over a sore that needs a knife.”

Top Greek ponderer Sophocles had a point, I guess. My results are back from the lab and Quincy spent no time picking up the phone to give me my options. And here’s the news, sports fans:

• Knee: large meniscal tear in medial side; severe osteo-arthritis; priority #1
• Hip: arthritis in hip joint; needs further investigation; priority #2
• Neck: fused C3,4 & 5 vertebrae; major surgery required; best leave well alone until they’ve developed a technique that avoids possible paralysis; priority #3

I have to admit, I have had better chats with a doctor ranging from ‘it’s just a cold, get out and stop wasting my time’ to ‘have you tried washing under there?’ But this is what a lifetime of kicking a Wembley Trophy does for you. The knee is first and the treatment will either be a quick bit of repair and ‘tidying up’ or, given the severity of the arthritis, the consultant may opt for a partial or FULL knee replacement!! What?! Bionic bread and cheese?!

This outstanding news was laid on me just a day after getting back from Blighty having had the weekend with gBoy and iGirl and the pointless gathering for my Level 2 continuation day courtesy of Hertfordshire FA. Considering the commitments made by the trainee coaches – my 8,000 mile round trip; lads unpaid time off work and general loss of holiday, the session was a total sham. What was covered could have been done over the blower and I’ll be taking this up in the strongest terms with Sir Trevor next time I see him.

But the surgery’s all to come. Before that I’ve got to try and get some parts strengthened up, or so says my physical therapist, Susan. I had an hour with her earlier today which was largely spent watching her type out my entire sporting injury history on the laptop. ‘Just bear with me a minute,’ she said as she bashed out a small novel. By the time she actually got round to giving me the once-over, I managed to get the weekend shopping in and do the Seattle Times soduko (hard).

Settling into the assessment of my poorly frame, she pulled me in a variety of different directions (steady, smutty brain) and carried out some angular measurements of my joints using a peculiar looking instrument that really belonged in a 1970′s trigonometry class. To her credit, she looked genuinely troubled by the fact that my body refused to go in the directions she tried to push it. And then out came the giant rubber band!

‘We need to improve your core strength,’ was the over-riding theme and this would be achieved, Susan explained, by inserting various parts of my anatomy within the rubber band and repeating a number of, frankly, ridiculous exercises that were at once painful and somewhat homo-erotic. I was to continue these unseemly movements until either a) I tired, or b) someone of a nervous disposition entered the room, or, c) flatulence occurs.

As I practiced under Susan’s watchful gaze, it seemed point c would be the more frequent reason to halt the exercise. It must have been something I had on the plane because as I tried to stretch the large band of red rubber by splaying my thighs out in opposite directions, as instructed, I laughed at how farcical I must have looked. As I laughed, I farted…and then I laughed a little louder…and then I farted again. Susan wasn’t laughing but she helped me off the floor and passed me a tissue for my eyes. I’m not sure, but I think she’s passed me on to a colleague for next week’s session.

All this couldn’t have come at a worse time, what with the house move and just as I am about to start work with my new girls team, the Lightning Cheetahs. What an inspirational  figure I’m going to be hobbling around on one knee and half a pelvis with my neck so spasm-ed that I’d comfortably pick up a part as an extra in Thunderbirds.

I’m going to look like a right old dinosaur.