Playing an incredibly team-oriented, well matched soccer game is what I live for on Monday and Tuesday nights. It is rare to get a group of players together, all having those oft dreamed about on days on the same day. Last night though, my co-ed team was pushing that ball around smoother than butter on toast. We were electrically charged, extremely high-energy, and were headed straight on til morning with our kick-butt playing. Even I scored a goal, a first in a league I have played in for a year. In fact, all five lady members of the team scored before any of the guys did (this is highly unusual). The guys were assisting, we were tapping it in. Suddenly, we had our stride.
And there I was, running around the field in what I hope to be my firecracker style (somewhere between scrappy and just barely aggressive), looking to receive a pass, when I crumbled to the ground instead. My ankle pooped out on me. And not only did it take a snooze, but also left me with severely intesnse, throbbing pain for the next twelve hours as well. I limped off the field with help, and then limped to my car a few minutes later, and struggled to drive my stick shift home. Between whimpers, I told myself to man up, that this sort of injury happens to everyone, and I knew how to care for it, and I was being a wimpy tiger.
Then I got out of the car and had to limp up the stairs to my house clutching the handrail as though it might magically give me wings and let my fly to my front door. Getting my shinguards off proved problematic, as did getting into the shower, and out of the shower, and into a pair of pants. I had to sit on the bed to get pants on. How cool did I feel?
Ken brought out a five pound bag of ice, and we set up a tower of pillows, towels, Ace bandages, and athletic tape. I gulped down ibuprofin, and was struggling to be comfortable in any way, shape, or form. The throbbing was so intense, I was not convinced my ankle was not planning on sprouting a tomato plant right out of the side of it. Ken, bless his heart, then handed me something even more helpful than a bag of ice — a glass with two thimbles full of rum resting in the bottom.
Mixing alcohol and ibuprofin is bad. It is very bad and you should definitely not do it. However, if you really want to sleep and are extremely uncomfortable and you cannot even concentrate on the most recent This American Life broadcast, I would look the other way if you decided to imbibe a conservative amount of alcohol after a couple anti-inflammatories.
No less than twenty minutes later, I was sound asleep. Not before I texted Kristin, to tell her that I was going to have to skip on our planned run, though. Even in pain, it’s good to be a responsible running buddy. And friend.