Short Fat Man Tears ACL, Gets Shorter and Fatter

Part One – Mental Toughness, Physical Weakness

The anterior cruciate ligament, or ACL, is a small, sturdy stretch of connective tissue joining the femur to the tibia. It’s one of the four major ligaments that surround the knee joint, and the ACL’s primary job is to minimize stress to the knee by preventing too much rotation and excessive forward movement. All of this meant absolutely nothing to me on the morning of June 23, 2007 as I cracked a serve into my opponent’s court and rushed the net. I was playing singles in a tennis tournament- the city of Concord’s B-level tournament – doing my best to redeem my dramatic fizzle in the 2006 tournament where I had my opponent on the ropes only to fall apart as my son watched in semi-detached horror, losing badly. Then, in the consolation round, I lost to a guy who I think used an oven mitt for a tennis racket. Winning nary a set in a B-level tennis tournament is reason enough to focus on jigsaw puzzles, but I couldn’t let it go, and I had to play again this year.
When that late June morning arrived, I was prepared – physically and mentally. I’d been working out with a personal trainer for months, not necessarily just for this tournament, but I was using this day as a way to gauge my success – to see if a noodle-armed, sloth-footed small man could progress deep into the draw even though I hadn’t picked up a tennis racket in months. Also, a hypnotherapist friend gave me a few strategies to help me conquer what had been my downfall in competitive tennis as a kid – the dreaded “You stink! You are a fat loser! You’ll never amount to anything!” affliction, things I’d yell at the top of my lungs about myself as some sort of negative motivational tool, often screamed just after I hit another volley into the bottom of the net. But things would be different this time. Now I was armed with a set of mental incantations to help me visualize the positive and focus on winning rather than not losing. Words like, “strength,” “extend,” and “forward” were coursing through my mind as we warmed up as I ignored that twelve-year old version of myself who knew I’d blow it again.
My opponent was just what I’d expected – about 53 years old, no discernable athletic prowess but someone who never missed a shot, always hit his serves in and who could run just enough to cover the court. In other words, someone I hoped to be. We started off, and things were tilting to the negative. He broke my serve and then won his and I was down 2-0. Quickly, I was down 3 games to 1 and needed to hold my serve. I wasn’t thinking about my ACL or much else, focused more on the ball that my opponent just hit over my head. In fact, the only thing that concerned me was not looking as pathetic as I’d looked in the previous four games. With my wife and two children looking on, I needed to maintain my composure, look athletic and for God’s sake, return that ball and win the damn point!
Twenty seconds later, as I lay flat on the red-clay court, a painful sensation of heated pain shooting up and down my left leg and my opponent offering lame suggestions like, “Maybe some water will help,” one word ran through my mind – Italy. We’d planned this trip for six months – a ten-day 40th birthday trip for me and my wife to Florence, where, without our kids, we’d live in a rented apartment, take day trips to the countryside, visit all the museums and take photos of me standing in front of that big naked statue of David, buzzed on wine we’d had at breakfast. This was now in jeopardy as I stood up, tried to play the game out and collapsed in a pathetic heap the instant I tried to run, my left knee providing about as much support as my wife was about to be when she realized international travel with crutches and a leg-long brace was not happening this summer.
Three days later the diagnosis was in – torn ACL, surgery scheduled for late summer, physical therapy sessions booked weeks in advance and a trip to Europe shelved. Thus initiated a summer filled with such phrases as, “No exercise for me today!” “Might as well have a fifth beer – Concord seems just like Florence if you’re drunk enough,” and, regrettably, “Can I have extra sour cream on my pork-filled burrito?” Yes, as any man under five foot six with a tendency to bulk up at a photo of cheese fries can tell you, sullen vacation memories, a sore leg, no exercise and ready access to beer, burgers and ice cream mean one thing – Timmy’s getting fatter.