Confessions of a Kamikaze Athlete

First published September 23, 2005

It was just after a session of sunset barefooting, and two of my friends were carrying me up the dock from the lake. My wife was standing on the shore with her hands on her hips in that universal wife-pose that clearly says, “All right, Einstein, what happened this time?”

I simply smiled bravely and said, “Aaaaaaarrrrrgggh.”


In an attempt to flesh out my explanation, one of my buddies told her, “Sorry. We broke your husband.” On the up side, I didn’t break my hip, like the doctors thought at first.

I’m willing to admit that I sometimes make questionable athletic decisions. And while I never make the same mistake twice, I have lived long and enthusiastically enough to make plenty of mistakes the first time.

As a result, the receptionist at the physical therapy clinic has my Blue Cross number memorized, and they keep a coffee mug with my name on it in their break room. Over the years, these teams of dedicated professionals have helped me fight my way back to a productive life after dislocations, strained muscles, compression fractures, torn ligaments, crushed fingers, concussions, contusions, and one injury involving the elbows that I don’t think anybody has even bothered to dream up a name for.

From my wife’s point of view, every one of my wounds has been self-inflicted. I’ve had a lot of trouble getting her to understand how things really are, so I’ll explain it to you. Then, if you’ll be so kind, you can explain it to her.

It’s just that all my life I’ve been the kind of meathead who is willing to lay down in front of a slap shot and take it in the ribs to prevent a goal in a pick-up hockey game. When nobody’s keeping score.

You should understand that I’ve never been a goalie – goalies are actually a different species, bred to do goofy things like that.

Now, you might think that I exhibit a certain lack of perspective when it comes to participating in sports. You would be right.

And I think my problem got a whole lot worse the day that I realized, at about the age of forty, that the odds had become pretty slim that the Detroit Tigers would be calling me to pitch short relief - especially since I haven’t thrown a baseball since the late ‘60s.

To compensate, I began to charge headlong into every activity that even resembles a sport, throwing my body into the fray with the reckless abandon of a gladiator auditioning for a starting position in the Pompeii Lions lunch buffet.

Along the way I’ve also developed a fairly high tolerance for pain. This comes in pretty handy whenever I come up with a great idea for a new trick I want to try on shoe skis and all the drugstores are closed.

Now I’ll bet there are lots of other kamikaze athletes like me out there. Well guys, I’m going to share with you the secret mantra I always use when I come to the sudden realization that the mountain bike trail I’m on is rated, “Are you out of your mind?” I simply close my eyes, transport myself to a “happy place,” and say:

“Uh-oh. This is really gonna hurt…”

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball