This morning I felt the effects of another two-hour open gym basketball session at the high school. By last night's end an achy instep had me hobbling up and down steps as though I had a peg leg. I knew I'd wake up with fire alarms for nerve endings when my feet hit the floor.
Wednesdays are weight lifting days on the exercise schedule, and for a spell I thought about passing. How can you do squats, let alone calf raises, when you could barely climb stairs?
I was a summer basketball camper nearing my freshman year of high school during a scrimmage. Leading the camp was the varsity coach, a man of presidential importance to a 13-year old kid weighing a few potato sacks more than 100 pounds. A few minutes into the game, the ball came loose on the floor and my hand got stomped in the fracas. Always mature for my years, I grimaced and slowed down to clutch the injury.
Coach's voice muttered to me, while the rest of the teams dashed down the floor.
"Forget the hand, Mac."
That's all it took. Instantly, I shook it off and put my mind back on hustle in the game. He probably urged a thousand kids similarly over his career, without knowing the permanent impression those two seconds left on me (more so than even his name, which escapes me now). We'll get stomped literally and figuratively from time to time. Forget the pain. Move!
Needless to say, I lifted today.
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