When I was in Middle School, Phys-Ed included some pretty intense gymnastics lessons. I was good at the rings, parallel bars and pretty good on the pummel horse. A bit skittish about the trampoline. But, after I got some basic moves down I was feeling better about it. Coach encouraged me to try something more advanced; a forward roll-twisty thing. OK, I was game, I was doing well so far.
In a larger class like this the extra pupils are stationed around the trampoline to serve as spotters. Spotters being a human safety net so that if the tumbler strays too close to the edge, the spotters can shove them back. Normally it’s simply a time to hang on the edge and be bored as you wait your turn.
I bounced up some height, initiated the forward roll, and added in the twisty thing… then BAM! The boom resounded throughout the gym. I remember seeing the guy climbing a rope be so startled he lost his grip and almost fell. “What happened, what was that sound?” thought I. Then I noticed, I was sitting on the floor. Some of the spotters were staring at me wide eyed, and my left leg was bent at the knee, off to the side at a completely unnatural angle. “Oh!” thought I, then promptly passed out.
I learned later that I muffed the twisty-thing and traveled out over the edge of the trampoline. The spotters at that spot saw me coming down on top of them and promptly stepped aside to prevent potential injury to themselves.
I awoke in the hospital with my left leg in a bulky brace and bandage contraption. The Doctor said I’d torn a ligament in the knee and stretched several others. It was his opinion that with rest and drugs, I would not need surgery, but I will have to be careful in the future.
This was the first time I destroyed that knee. The second was playing football, the third was in wrestling. It took three shots before they finally did the surgery, and that ended my sports career. Not that I ever had aspirations of a career in sports, much less a shot at the Olympic Games: being able to say Olympic Games in my article is just a shameless way of gaining some search engine advantage.
No, my interest in sports was purely recreational. I never was what you would consider a “jock”. In fact I stunk at most of the traditionally favorite sports. If it involved catching, hitting or throwing a ball (or ball-like object) I was terrible at it. But I could run like the wind and had a surprising amount of strength in my scrawny little frame. Coach called me “wirey”.
In football it was discovered that if my teammates could put the ball into my hands and point out the direction I was to run, delivery of the ball to the goal line was almost always assured, as I weaved and dodged through the big bruisers trying to stop me at a speed that caught them off guard. You would think this would earn me some respect among my teammates, but since – if they neglected to identify which goal post was currently ours (it changed from time to time) – I was just as likely to deliver the ball to the opposing teams goal for them, respect was given only grudgingly. Still, I tried, until a member of an opposing team decided to take my foot as a souvenir as I flashed by him: the knee popped, I went down and was out of things again for several months.
Wrestling was never something I saw myself doing, but it was big in North Dakota, so while we were stationed there Coach convinced me to try out. In gym class and practice sessions he had me competing against boys two weight classes above my own to keep me from hurting them. He called me “the meanest man on the team”. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and felt badly when I did, I’d just lose sight of my own strength during the heat of battle. A doctor would later label this trait “Berserker Mode” caused by an over-abundance of adrenalin in my body, and a condition that once caused me to spend a night sitting in a jail cell. But that’s a story for another time.
One evening I was in a competition, and doing well when my opponent took hold of my foot, put his shoulder to my knee and pulled, snapping the knee again. It was an illegal move and he forfeited the match, but it also sent me to the hospital with a mangled knee.
Back then Arthroscopy was unknown, to fix the problem the surgeon laid my knee open like a fileted fish, leaving scars that remain even today. Recovery was long and painful. When a limb is badly injured (or laid open with a scalpel) the brain turns the limb off so it won’t be injured further. Getting the brain to turn it back on can be tricky.
The therapist tried the “gentle approach” first – “gentle” be a relative term: I labeled him the Marquis De Sade’ for his therapeutic technique – but when that didn’t work he took a more direct approach. He lifted my foot a couple of feet off the bare metal table I was laying on and said, “I’m going to count to three, then drop your leg. If you let it hit the table, it is going to hurt. A lot. One… Two… Three…” He let go of my foot and my brain decided to switch the circuit breakers back on. Preventing the uncontrolled drop probably hurt more than it would to just let it fall. I screamed as I lowered the leg to the table. He grinned maliciously at me, “NOW, we can get going on some proper therapy.”
It took what seemed like 6 years to get back on my feet, though it was probably more like 6 months. I had to learn to walk all over again. I spent a few weeks in a wheel chair between therapy sessions, then graduated to crutches and used them for a long time. Finally I was released for normal ambulation.
This much awaited day coincided with a school “swim party”, and I decided I would attend with some of my friends from the track team. The gym had a pool in the center, weights and gymnastics stuff around the edge and a running track on a balcony around the perimeter of the inside. My friends challenged me to a friendly race – just us – on the raised track. I felt fine and was curious to see if I could still run at all, so I accepted.
We pealed out of our street clothes, leaving just the swim trunks. I was wearing an assortment of jewelry and wanted to leave that with someone I trusted. Karen, a girl who hung out with the rest of us was there and happily accepted the roll of Guardian.
Kevin, Mike and I started off with an easy jog. It felt good to run again and I stepped it up a notch. Soon the three of us were flying around the track with me in second place. I was focusing on my running: foot placement, leg extension, powering through, breathing properly, I’d shut out all else. Then voices intruded on my concentration, more like one voice, a crowd, chanting: “Go Doug, go… go, Doug, go…” This warmed my heart and gave the energy to put in just a little more effort. I pulled up even with Mike, the chant grew louder, he gave me a hard, competitive look – he was not slacking – I reached inside and pulled just a bit harder, I drifted out front. Mike also reached, found a little, caught up, and stayed along side me for one long side of the track. But when we reached the corner he slowed up, admitting defeat.
The crowd went wild. I felt like an Olympian!
Afterward Mike and Kevin both said they were not slacking to make me look good, they put their best effort into it, and congratulated me, not so much for winning the heat, but for still being competitive – even though I would never return to competitive running: it was too dangerous.
We went down the stairs and located Karen to retrieve our stuff. After reassembling myself, I noticed a ring was missing and asked her about it. She held up a hand, my ring on her finger, “I think I’ll keep this one.”
“Congratulations!” grinned Mike, “She finally caught you.”
“I didn’t know she was chasing me.”
“You must be blind, man.”
For the rest of the school year, Karen and I hung out together and it was a sweetly romantic time. My first girl friend. Then my family was reassigned and we moved on to our next location.
I didn’t normally attend school functions, especially swim parties, But I sure was glad I went to that one.
