THE BRAVEST MAN ALIVE

I think you should all know what my wife told me recently: "You’ve hardly complained at all!"

Yes, I had a major injury, on par with some of the most severe in the history of healthcare, and I stoically braved it, without so much as a whimper. Or at least no more than a few whimpers.

As some of you may know, I am about as accident prone as Robert Downey Jr. wearing a blindfold and driving a Pinto through Times Square. I would like to think I’m fairly coordinated, but I’d also like to think I’m Brad Pitt-handsome, so that should tell you something.

The one good thing is that it always provides with me something to write about. Someone once asked me if I hurt myself on purpose when I couldn’t think of anything for a column. Well, you’ll just have to wait for the tabloids on that one.

My most recent injury came courtesy of softball. Again. Yes, I know that just a few weeks ago I was sharing my softball war story, but softball is a harsh mistress, and she takes pleasure in my pain. I believe it was General Sherman who once said, "War is hell. But softball will really mess you up. Now let’s go torch Atlanta."

So the other day I was playing a game when I hit a nice easy single. As I rounded first, I saw the center fielder bobble the ball a little bit, so I sprinted for second. As I put on the brakes at second, I rolled my ankle over and hit the ground in a most ungracious flop. (Note to all you guys out there: Yes, I was safe.)

The umpire asked me if I needed a runner. I told him no. I stood up and tried to take a step and fell to the ground. That kinda told him a different story. I hopped off the field and made it to the dug-out. (Note to the guys: Of course we won. You think I would have left a game that wasn’t safely out of reach? I’m a gamer. I would have crawled to third if the need arose.)

When I got home, my ankle was swollen to a most impressive level. Here’s a tip to all you fellas out there: Never, ever, ever, ever say to your wife, "Look how swollen it is – just like yours when you were pregnant!" They will not laugh. And they may make your other ankle match.

My ankle hurt a fair amount, but as I mentioned, I was taking the brave approach to my latest wound. I decided that I would go to the doctor the next day if it was still bothering me, but that I would tough it out until then.

The next morning, I awoke to find my ankle still swollen, but with the added bonus of being purple and black all of the way around. If I may play amateur psychologist for a moment, I think the main reason I was so manly during this ordeal is that my ankle looked so cool. I mean, it hurt, sure. But to see it the size of a loaf of bread and the color of grape jelly smeared on asphalt just absolutely fascinated me. It’s like the pain was the cover charge to see the cool show.

I decided that I would hop on into the doctor’s office, just to make sure it wasn’t broken. He sent me to the hospital for X-rays, so I hopped on over there.

I was in great spirits when I went into the hospital, and I think a couple of people thought I might have been mocking the infirm as I whistled and hopped through the hospital. You know, I may be callous in some parts of my soul, but I’d like to think that I would not go to a hospital and mock the ill. At least not the terminally ill.

It was also at the hospital where I was reminded of an important fact of life: not everyone likes my jokes. You would think I would have learned that by now. But sometimes I forget that jokes, like real estate, are all about location. So when you hop into a crowded X-ray waiting room and tell them you think you broke your arm, you don’t get a lot of guffaws. I suppose it could have been worse. I guess I could have jokingly said I was there for my sex change operation and been swiftly whisked into surgery.

Eventually, they x-rayed the ankle, and it turned out nothing was broken. Just a sprain, they said. But a mighty fine looking sprain, they should have added.

For the next few days, I was still hopping around. I borrowed some crutches from a friend and used them for all of about five minutes until I realized I could get more people staring at me confused if I continued my half-limp, half-hop everywhere I went. Plus I made much better time.

But through it all, I hardly complained a bit. My wife didn’t know how handle to this, because she is used to be going on for weeks about the severity of a hangnail, and how no one on the planet has ever had as serious of a hangnail. I think we’ve both learned a valuable lesson here. She has learned that her husband actually has a measurable threshold of pain. And I have learned that the best way to enjoy an injury is to make sure it looks cool. Oh, and I’ve learned to just stay at first.