But I could feel the Wound growing. The Wound swelling, swelling and swelling like a 2nd kneecap grown up beside my first. After the game I was awarded the Game Beer for my valor (or at least getting in the way of the ball) and I even went to the bar afterward, already limping badly. At the bar, the waitress was nice enough to get me a sack of ice in a plastic bag and that felt like heaven, fucking heaven, until the bag started leaking water all over my pants and suddenly I was a drunken, gimpy dude in a softball T-shirt jersey with a wet crotch.
Not my sexiest moment.
I took me swollen knee home with me that night and iced it again and again and drank water, praying I would live out the night, and I slept with my leg elevated on a pillow. Your body is always giving off some heat, but Lordy I could feel double or triple the heat coming off my swollen knee and it was as if a new visitor had come to live in my apartment. Me, Frenchie, and and my hot gimpy knee! The day after our game would be the hardest-a gimpy Blogagaard trying to shower, trying to put his pants on, trying to get in and out of his car, trying to gimp across campus to get to work. It was as if I'd aged forty years all in one night and all for the sake, let us recall, of a 50 min beer league softball game.
Over the next few days, I made friends with my swollen knee (we've started watching Madmen together, which I've delayed seeing until a crisis such as this) and now, as the Wound recedes slowly into a crater-like bruise, I feel I might even miss it a little when it's gone. It is a badge well understood by third basemen everywhere and has been a constant reminder that my life is not all safe, not all dull.