“Time to do some toe scrunchers”
December 2, 2021
I’ll be with you in about 30 seconds. Feel free to do stretch exercises right along with me. So, stand on your toes, and then—no! That’s stupid. Nobody takes me seriously. Give me ten more seconds and—that’s it.
A couple of you may have been pretending to be morons. I get that all the time. For those of you not pretending, let me say that I meant for you to stand on your tiptoes; not to take your left foot and stand atop the toes of your right foot. But let’s get past that.
What I was doing, and what a few of you were trying to do is stretch the Achilles tendon. If you were awake during most of last week’s article, you doubtfully remember that 25 years ago I separated my Achilles tendon, thus ending the Hayters Thanksgiving and Christmas Football games. Seems, the games centered around the four Hayter brothers. There would generally be five to eight people per team, but the brothers were the only thing that gave the games a hint of legitimacy. Know what I mean? Well, pretend. Sheeesh.
When I took up racquetball a couple of years back, my long-since healed ankle began to feel as if someone had shot an arrow that sheered my tendon. To this day, I can so identify with Achilles, son of Peleus, after Paris’ arrow struck his heel. Fast forward several centuries to around now when I was sent to “Results Physiotherapy” in The Woodlands. Forrest Scruggs was the man in charge, and that guy knew how to stretch every tendon, muscle, and stretchy thing in your body. Fortunately, he focused on my left ankle.
Since it was my first time with a physical therapist, I had to fill out several documents. It was a long process, but not nearly as long as my mental therapist required. Anyway, you would think I could just rattle off the different medications I take. It’s like a new experience each time. Then list my surgeries. Only one was linked to my Achilles tendon, so I just named two others. It only took me about 45 minutes to finish the forms, which was good, because it gave Forrest more time to work with the other guy in the facility. He had the man doing some odd things. Probably some physio stuff.
While the other patient/client was moving a gigantic inflated ball up the side of a wall without the use of his hands, I told Forrest my life story, including me being the keystone to the Hayters flag/tackle football games, and that I had been playing racquetball for a couple of years. He seemed extremely unimpressed. I took that as a sign that whatever exercises he had me do would show me to be a real loser. Hey, there was no way I could push a giant inflatable ball up a wall with my chest and elbows.
The first thing, he asked me to do was take off my shoes and socks and take a fast walk to the water fountain and back. I didn’t make it all the way to the water fountain because the guy wrestling with the giant ball pretty much owned that part of the gym. When I returned to Forrest, he said, “Is that your usual walk?” I told him I generally skip after every second step, but thought I should try to look more professional in front of him. Saying something stupid is reckless before learning whether or not the person has a sense of humor. Forrest said, “Okay, Mr. Hayter, we’ll work on your skip using the giant ball. But first, we must wait till Bill is through with it. I wasn’t sure if he was joking.
The hardest exercise he assigned me involved sitting down and putting a towel on the floor and placing my damaged foot on top of it. Then, I was to use my toes to scrunch up the towel while keeping the rest of my foot on the floor. I’ve made no secret of the fact that my toes are pretty much married to one another. Kay can put a jigsaw puzzle together with her toes. I found out I can’t even scrunch up a towel with mine.
The final question asked had to do with how often I could show up for therapy. Forrest asked, “Five days a week? Three?” I told him I would prefer one day every other week but would settle on once a week. He assured me that if I only showed up once a week, it could possibly take months to accomplish my goal.
That’s when I shucked down the proverbial corn. I said, “Look, Forrest, I’m 72 years old. I’ve almost given up on the idea of playing professional sports. Before coming here I had only one goal. But you’ve given me a second. One thing I want to do is learn to walk in a way that my right foot doesn’t stick out sideways and trip people. More importantly, though, I want to be able to beat Brad Meyer at racquetball.”
He gave me one of those understanding nods. “Well, I can sure do that,” he said. “When do you want me to play him?” – That’s when I knew I liked Forrest Scruggs. He has a great sense of humor. While I’m only seeing him once a week, he’s given me several exercises to do. Speaking of which, I need to shut this thing down and finish what’s called a “calf stretch with strap”.
However, I’m going to tell you this upfront. If Forrest ever tosses me one of those gigantic inflatable balls and tells me to scale the wall with it, I’m doing a fast walk out of that place. Beating Brad Meyerson is not worth me attempting to do what I saw Bill do. I can’t afford to lose what little pride I have left.
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