Wednesday, July 25, 2012

My shoulder is pointing wrongly!

It was my first victory playing with my social basketball team, the Whitney Houston Rockets (the name has not aged well). We were ahead by a good margin, I'd scored a few freaky shots, and then I reached for a hail mary steal and landed awkwardly. And I knew immediately what had happened.

For most of my time roaming the footy fields or basketball stadiums as a dumpy teenager, I'd always been the number 4 guy. Not bad too ball handling skills, but not terrible enough to be the complete "unco" kid of the team. I assisted like a mother fucker, and stayed away from anything too complex. My constant memory of playing footy was my well meaning Dad encouraging me to "run towards the ball, Sam!"

So as a cocky 25 year old, when I reached for that ball and heard my shoulder pop, part of me thought this was a long time coming. My teammates huddled around me asI moved gingerly to the stadium couch, me sweating profusely. One of the umpires came over and started telling me about her knee doing something something, how lucky I should feel because she had to drive an hour to get to hospital! What is it with a certain type of person that needs to one up someone as they're trying to avoid passing out in pain? Did she want me to console her, to Wow at her story and offer her my seat?


Coming up with different and unique swearing patterns helped ease the pain. Apparently, swearing increases your pain tolerence and if that's the case then I was dabbling in some heavy duty shit.


My very nice teammates sat as we waited for the ambulance. As the pain grew, I looked up sheepishly at the television, having watched my first episode of The Voice as my shoulder hung loosely from the rest of me. We don't have TV in our house, not in an "We're so much better than you" kind of way, but in a weird black spot of reception kind of way. Three contestants cried. Three. All guys, just so happy with how far they've come.


Having waited for the ambulance for 45 minutes and not turning up ("If this was a pizza you'd want your money back" " HA HA HA!!!!") my girlfriend drove me to the hospital. North Melbourne residents were privy to a pasty 25 year old with a shoulder hanging limp screaming FUCK YOUR CUNTING DICK from the passenger side as we passed over every train line and speed hump Melbourne seemed to offer.

Once in the hospital, I felt a weird surge of pride as I looked around the emergency unit, expecting a Beetlejuice-esq waiting room full of bleeding faces and horror. I was easily the most outwardly injured person there (YAY!) and got to head in pretty straight away. The doctor, a very nice middle aged man, said we can either put it back in now or go under anaesthetic.
"Sometimes you can just massage the area and it'll go back in"
I was seeing what he was doing. "Your not going to use Jedi Mind tricks and push that sucker back in, are you?!" I pleaded with the doctor. He smiled and assured me it wasn't so much like in the movies. After attempting the old slight movement back into place (ARSE FUCKER), general anaesthetic was the wise wise choice. As I went under, I apparently described the painkillers as "Groovy", and in true polite Rankin nature I told all the nurses and doctors that they should get raises. 

And now here I am, T-Rexing my way around the house with my arm in a sling. Moral of the story?

Never try.


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