by Sorin-Mihai Grad [Germany]
Translation from Romanian by Carmen Gaspar, MTTLC student
edited by Robert Fenhagen
pentru versiunea română click aici
I haven’t been to the doctor’s to get a proper diagnosis, but I think it’s a strain–I’m almost certain it’s not a break. Oh, I hate being hurt. We had planned to go out to salsa–it was Saturday night after-all.
But, I forgot why, we ended up playing soccer on this Saturday night, and, unfortunately, I spent the majority of my warm-up time driving to the gym.
So, for three days now, I have been avoiding ice, too many stairs, and sudden movements–allowing my pulled muscles to mend, especially the big one that feels as if it is ready to be fashioned into a schnitzel! It hurts a lot still.
We were thirteen players–perhaps an unlucky number–with me being the extra player on one of the pick-up teams-ours had seven players–all of us wanting athletes.
After some fierce and not so fierce ball chasing (I was only running after it if absolutely needed), I scored a goal and assisted with three other attempts.
After some time, we led 2 to 1, even though I was rather lackadaisical in my play.
One of the opposites smashed his cleat on my foot just as I had tried to score a cushion point–an extra winning point. I let out a scream, which was undoubtedly the most energy that I had exhibited in this ‘sporting outage’.
I hobbled to a side bench and sat mutely–afraid that I might let out another scream–very unsportsmanlike and quite feminine in sound. That was the end of the game for me, so I made my way to the locker room, dressed carefully, and hobbled out to my car.
“Why are you home so early?” Asked my sweetheart.
“Let’s say that, even if you have changed your mind about dancing and want to go, I cannot. I’m damaged goods now.”
“Pretty dangerous, this football of yours.”
“My foot was smashed with a cleat, and I’ve strained muscles that I never knew I had; yes, this game of mine–one which I take no pleasure in owning–is dangerous.”
Life went on—theoretically. I hurt.
I hardly dared using the car on Monday– pressing in the clutch bought forth a yelp that sounded particularly girlish to my humbled ears.
Tuesday was much better, my leg and foot barely throbbed.
Wednesday–I nearly slipped this morning as I was clearing the snow off my car–it wasn’t a lot, either. I almost slipped and got so scared that I might re-injure myself.
I almost was blessed with a recurrence. I decided that I would continue my humility course-NOT the football one.
Thursday–it turned out to be a false alarm–I had not re-injured myself!
Friday–I didn’t use the elevator–neither at work or home.
I was almost completely recovered.
Saturday–I’m ready to go sledging today.
“So, what happened to you?” Asked my loved one–a smirk on her lips.
“Nothing.” I said, masking a grimace.
“Are you sure nothing happened?” She asked, raising her perfectly manicured eyebrows.
“Nothing special.” I said.
I tried to gather speed with my good legs, because in my dreams, I’ll always be OK.