I am not a happy man. Nor am I fully functional. While playing basketball tonight, some fuckwit, some asshat we don’t even know or like or want to play with, he does his signature move: he runs into me at full tilt, shoulder first. I go flying (230 pound guys do not fly readily, so you can imagine how hard this smacktard hit me) and land awkwardly on my wrist. I get up and swear at him a bit but keep playing, thinking I just jammed it. After a few seconds, though, I can tell this isn’t just a jam. I can’t dribble the ball. It’s hurt. I get the ball and I’m open so I take the shot. It goes in, but my wrist goes from numbness to searing pain. It’s hurt bad.
I can’t bear the thought of losing or letting this twat think he knocked me out of the game, so I finish, playing with one hand. Playing badly. To make this guy just a little bit more of a shitbag, he won’t play defense…he just cherry picks. So I hang back on offense to guard against that, and make sure to bump him a few times whenever possible. My team picks it up and we win the game. I get my bag and leave. My wrist is swollen as hell. I can’t even open my bottle to pour some cold water on it. Frosty kindly gives me a ride to a major intersection where I can catch a cab. Even getting myself and my gym bag into a taxi using only my left hand is a chore.
Now, as I (very, very slowly) type this with my left hand, my right hand is stuck at a 30 degree angle, pointing toward the floor. Moving a finger hurts. I can’t even pick up my Blackberry, let alone hold it. It’s probably not broken, but it’s clearly not functional. Obviously this is not my summer. I need to find a cave.
The worst part is that I wanted to tell this fuck not to play. We all did. None of us wanted him there, but we were all too nice to say it. If I’d said it my wrist would be fine. So let that be a lesson to you, kids. Never be afraid to tell an asshole that he’s an asshole.
And now, back to the pain. ‘Night, everybody.
[tags]wrist injury, basketball, polyps, darjeeling limited[/tags]