Almost two weeks ago now, I thought I broke my right index finger.

I went to the gym at lunch to play basketball the day before the Fourth of July, half expecting no one to be there since I figured most of the guys would have started the holiday early.  As it turned out, there was a solid collection of the better crappy players I run with, and we were able to get in three games (my limit).  Near the end of the third match, the dude guarding me, who happened to tower a foot taller, took a swipe at the ball just as I was releasing a three-point shot.

The good news was I made the bucket.  The bad news was the defender’s hand caught my finger and I immediately ran off the court and out of the gym in agony.

My language was not the best, either, I must admit, but I didn’t scream like a girl.

More like a guy, I suppose.

My first concern was determining if my finger was broken.  Given my extensive medical experience from watching many years of M*A*S*H, St. Elsewhere, and ER, I quickly surmised there was no break.  Aiding in this diagnosis was that fact I could still move the digit relatively easily.

I knew, unfortunately, that in many respects a break would have been better than torn ligaments or a bad sprain, simply because the latter two injuries take so much longer to heal.

I also knew that whatever pain I was feeling at the moment would be ten times worse later, so I figured I would go ahead and jump back in the game and finish it out.

After all, what am I saving it for?  I don’t expect to get drafted for the NBA next year.

Sure enough, the next morning I could barely move my finger.  From the swelling I guessed it was a bad sprain, and adhering to my own personal rallying cry of “No Professionals!”, I also chose not to go through the hassle of visiting a medical professional to verify the problem.

I was willing to visit a Dog Scientist or Local Witch Doctor, however, but none were available that day for this particular Muggle.

So I soldiered down my lonely path of pain and discontent.

One of the things that really, really sucks is disheartening about getting old is that I no longer bounce back from injuries after a couple of days and a good night’s sleep.  When I get hurt these days, I know I’m embarking on days and weeks of incremental healing.

Perhaps the greatest challenge on the road to recovery is, of course, I still want to play while I’m getting better.  Unfortunately, two serious consequences result.  First, I usually suffer a re-injury, which delays the healing process even longer.  Second, I typically play like shi   don’t play very well, having to compensate for my grievous condition.

“Hey, your shot was off today.”

“It’s because only three fingers on my right hand work.”

“Well, I don’t think we’re going to pick you for this next game.”

“I can still play defense,” I reply.

“Like I said, I don’t think we’re going to pick you for this next game.”

In the world of street basketball, scoring is valued above all other qualities, with the exception, perhaps, of being able to dunk.  Actually, now that I think about it, dunking pretty much trumps everything else, so I take back what I wrote about scoring.

So here I find myself two weeks later with a still-swollen finger.  Not only is my jump shot suspect, I can’t play golf either, because that requires holding a club semi-properly.

My world is shrinking!

However, there are two things that I can manage pretty easily, bum finger or no.  I can adequately grip a kitty litter scoop, which enables me to clean the cat boxes (because, God knows, Daughter rarely does it).

And I can hold the dog’s leash.

I suppose that’s one vision of my athletic future:  walking the dog and lifting cat litter bins.

And watching golf on television.

Nah.

I’ll be back.  I’m not ready to hang it up yet.

Almost, but not quite.

– Dad