Those real sports injuries hurt a lot, but not this much

I’ve been limping around for a few days. I have a sports injury. Sometimes, we athletes get them.

This one, sadly, comes from bowling.

Yes, that’s what it has come to, not just for me, but also for my fellow men of a certain age. The boys and I bowled three games – and by “boys” I mean large, balding men eligible for AARP – and for days afterward several of us gimped around the office like Brett Favre after an eight-sack day.

I’m not quite sure what happened. I think I sprained my big toe while bowling a 108. Either that or I wrenched it while striding purposefully toward a foaming pitcher of Longhammer IPA. All I know is that it’s another depressing reminder of how far a man can fall, from his tough 20s to his feeble 50s.

I have such fond memories of the old days – the days when I had real sports injuries.

I’ll never forget the time when I rounded third and raced toward home with the winning run. I’ll also never forget that unmistakable “pop” I heard in my right leg. It was the sound of my hamstring yanked asunder.

A pulled hammie – now, that’s a true sports injury, the kind a man can feel good about.

Oh, but I’ve had better. There was the time I slid awkwardly into home and badly strained my anterior cruciate ligament. Only a real athlete can strain an ACL.

Almost as impressive: a rotator cuff injury. I’ve had one of those, too, although medical science still can’t explain how I got one in my non-throwing shoulder.

And then there was the time I was skiing in the Cascades and took a particularly wild pratfall and wrenched my medial collateral ligament. While waiting in the lift line.

And then there was the time I was fly-fishing on a spring creek in the channeled scablands. I slipped on a mossy rock and sprained my ankle so painfully that I had to drag myself, sometimes crawling, all the way back to the road. The fact that the road was only 30 yards away does not diminish the heroic effort.

Sometimes, it’s through such travails that we discover what we’re made of. I discovered that I am made of some extremely fragile ligaments in the ankle region.

Today, I am reduced to bowling injuries. And even worse, golf injuries. It’s not easy to injure yourself playing golf, yet my friends and I routinely pull it off.

We sprain our wrists while chili-dipping a wedge shot. We strain neck muscles while whiffing on tee shots. We wrench our backs picking up a golf ball. Even worse, we wrench our backs trying to pick up a golf ball without getting out of the golf cart.

It’s just another of the indignities we have become accustomed to, as a post-middle-aged men.

I do have to wonder what’s next. If you ever see an ambulance at a city park, it’ll probably be me, being carted off a croquet court.