It was tough watching Indiana Pacer Tyrese Haliburton go down with a severed Achilles tendon last night in the seventh game of the NBA Finals.
I can totally relate (to the injury, not the skill level) because the exact same thing happened to me back in 1982.
I was opening up a large family restaurant in Anaheim, CA directly across the street from Disneyland and the Magic Kingdom Castle. So close that Disneyland actually provided us with car covers for our guests due to all the ash that would drift its way over our parking lot after each fireworks performance.
But back to the injury.
My big brother (eight years older) and I were playing a pickup basketball game and surprisingly enough, were holding our own against much younger players. I remember going up for a rebound (as high as my six-inch vertical leap could provide) and one of their guys went up with me, but when he came down, his foot landed at just the right angle on my left calf and snap, my playing career was basically over.
But I’m a tough guy.
Right.
An idiot more like it.
I refused to address my injury because I was in total charge of getting this two-hundred seat restaurant staff trained and ready to open the doors. Mr. Tough Guy chose instead, to limp my ass around for a month until, after we had successfully opened and the place was running smoothly, the owner, who happened to be connected with the Los Angeles Rams who were playing in Anaheim that year, sent me to their training camp to see his friends.
The surgeon (Dr. Jobe) instructed me to lay flat on the examining table, face down.
Then he told me to move my right leg upward.
No problem.
Raised it right up to a 90-degree angle.
Then he said, “Now the left one.”
Nothing.
I was doing as he asked and I thought I was lifting my leg.
That was the end of the exam.
“Runaway Achilles,” meaning the tendon had snapped, and the more Mr. Tough Guy limped around on it, the further it separated, dictating how long the surgical scar would be.
Would, coulda, shoulda…
Instead of a two-inch scar, it ended up going from mid-calf to mid-thigh.
Dumbass.
With all the money flying around in athletics, we are starting to see NIL deals making 18-year old millionaire football players before they even take one snap in college.
Yeah, we’ve got our priorities straight.
At least we will have when we supply our nations’ educators with all the resources they need to train the future of the planet.
And pay them.
Just because we have idiots of both Red and Blue persuasions running the show doesn’t mean we have to continue to govern ourselves with our heads up our asses.
And really, I don’t know who is more fucked up: The 22-year old sicko who attempted to marry a nine year-old girl at Disneyland in France, or the Latvian mother who was part of the wedding party?
Oh, those whacky Latvians.
Stay well.
