Brad and Racquetball

 

Hayter for March 16, 2025

How Brad and Racquet Ball Messed Me Up

            When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one person to dissolve the bands of racquetball that have helped maintain a friendship between Brad Meyer and myself… yadda, yadda. I used the beginning of the Declaration of Independence to add seriousness to my situation.

               I haven’t even shared the news with Brad, yet. He seldom reads my articles, so I may just give him some stupid excuses for not meeting him at the gym. Oh, and get this! I’m paid up for two months with the Rec Center. The people in charge over there are as friendly as can be, but I doubt the County will reimburse a person due to his inability to use the facility for the duration of his pass. I may have to ask Kay to look into that for me.

            I’ve got to tell you—that girl was terrific today! Well, actually most days, but this day in particular. You see, I had to go to the hospital to take four hours' worth of notes on what I need to do in preparation for my hip replacement. – Beg pardon? Really? I thought I already mentioned my hip problem. Okay, I’m having my replaced in a week or two. I’ve no idea who donated their thigh to me. 

            The “donner” part was just me playing dumb. I’ve gotten good at that? In truth, there aren’t many bones you can donate. A knee, toe, finger, and skull are a few of the others. -- Try to tell that to Victor Frankenstein. 

            But forget other people. My hip started bothering me a few months back. Being the athlete that I am, I refused to make a big deal out of it. I just limped around the racquetball court while trying to get to the ball. At no time did Brad recognize my limp. He just grinned at me, each time that he won a point.

            I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m a man of constant sorrows. I’m nothing like the Soggy Bottom Boys in “O’ Brother Where Art Thou?” Those guys had it bad. Of course, we’ve all got sorrows. Right now, it’s taking all I’ve got to not blame Brad for my hip surgery.

The only thing that could’ve ruined my hip was the number I times I hit the floor or the wall while playing racquetball. At one time, I managed to get to the side wall, so Bradfordson wouldn’t run over. Well, for whatever reason, ran right into me, knocking me against the wall.  The collision resulted in him falling to the floor and bumping his head. then fell on the floor and bumped his head. And get this—he blamed me for it!

I’ve never claimed to be good at physics, but I do know enough to realize that when someone runs smack dab into you while your back is turned and you’re standing perfectly still, the resulting collision was not your fault.

When I managed to gather my wits, which were scattered all over the wall, I walked over to Brad to check on him. The big gallute just waved me off. -- “Don’t touch me.” I think that’s what he said. To tell you the truth, I was the only one who still had his wits about him. It didn’t matter, the Brad Man was ticked.

When he finally managed to stand, he said, “Why’d you knock me down?” All I needed to say was, “I’m sorry.” But, I felt the need to tell him the truth. He did not agree one bit with my truth. He still doesn’t, but we eventually both let it go. I only brought it up now because it was one of the many times that my body hit the wall or the floor. In other words, it’s one of many reasons that I need a hip replacement.

By the way, I don’t understand why the word “replacement” is used. The only thing replaced is the socket that’s planted in my right hip. I’ve got another socket in my left hip, but Brad hasn’t managed to mess it up yet. Fortunately, my right hip will never do that again. While I’ve run into the wall and fell on the floor multiple times in the gym, not one particular episode ruined my thigh joint. The thing eventually just got tired of hitting the wall and the floor. 

Since I haven’t suffered from any floor or wall episodes in my house or anywhere else, I have to assume that playing racquetball did me in. The only person I can blame for it is my friend Brad. Surely, he can understand that. And, yes, he hates it when I call him Shirley.

Kay went with me to the hospital today for my pre-replacement lecture. The kind therapist explained everything to me, using way too many details. I may not have mentioned it before, but my mind tends to wander when people try to explain something to in more than three sentences. Kay, oddly enough, knew that, so she took notes for me.

The therapist lady’s plan was to act as if my active life was over. She said my hip could possibly be healed in two months after the operation. When I heard that, I asked, “Will I still be able to play racquetball after that?”

She said “NO!” to racquetball, pickleball, wrestling, or playing jacks. I think she was joking about the jacks. When I pushed her barring racquetball from my activities, she said (I’m paraphrasing here.), “Look, you’re an old man. Your running days are over. Now you’re a walker. While you’ll need to be doing some slow exercises for the rest of your short life, you cannot run or move quickly in any direction. Other than that, you’ll do great.”

The scary part about all of this is the fact that Kay is acting as if she is now in charge of me. I don’t know what she’d do if I tried to play racquetball. Of course, there may come a time when she says, “Okay! Get your rear outta here and play racquetball. You and Brad practice jujitsu if you want! Me? I’m going to buy a dog, because you certainly won’t be much company.”

She didn’t say that, but I can read her pretty well.

end

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