Dan DaranciangFirst up: the knee
High school soccer in downstate Illinois (basically everything south of Chicago) is a strange thing. For the most part, the games are competitive and most schools will have a starting lineup of skilled players. But then, on every normal team’s schedule, there are a few outliers.
These teams are usually from the rural parts of the state, and generally consist of the kids who couldn’t make the football team. They ride to games on their tractors, with pieces of hay dangling from their mouths (a slight exaggeration). These teams often equip their players with basketball shorts, and if you’re unfortunate enough to play an away game, you’d better like corn, because there’s a lot of it.
My team always used games like this to pad our statistics, but once we went up by three or four goals, our coach took out the starters to prevent unnecessary injuries.
But one day our coach didn’t attend one of our match-ups with one of these Hick Highs, and the statistical onslaught was on. And then it happened.
I was chasing an errant pass that was about to roll over the endline. I should have just let it go, considering we were up by four goals at the time, but who wants to pass up a potential assist? When I planted my left leg, the wet ground gave way, and buckled under my weight as I swung my other leg around. My kneecap tore away from my lower quadrupeds, and that was it. Season over.
Blame it on the weather conditions, or just call it payback for running the score up on a helpless bunch of farmboys – either way, I needed a serious reconstructive surgery. My dislocation was worse than a kneecap simply popping out of its joint. I had subluxed my kneecap, meaning that I had separated it from the vastus medialus (a muscle in the quad). In order to fix the problem, I needed a drastic procedure that involved two incisions, one for the release of the kneecap, and the other to mend it.
But thanks to a good rehabilitation program, I was able to recover and play in my club soccer season the following spring. I continued playing on the varsity team here at the University as a freshman, but disaster struck again about a month into the season. I was working out with the ball in a racquetball court, planted wrong, and tore it away again.
For my second surgery, the procedure was even more elaborate. Since the first attempt didn’t solve my recurring problem, the doctor decided to perform the Fulkerson procedure. Using an eight-inch incision, the doctor went below my kneecap to my upper tibia and broke it for the purpose of realignment. Then, once he had moved the kneecap back, he nailed three bolts through my tibia, which still set off airport metal detectors to this day.
Due to the severity of the second surgery, my doctor informed me that I couldn’t play soccer or any competitive sport for fear of re-injuring my knee. I was shocked by the news, and for a while it was hard to watch my friends go to practice without me. But eventually I got over it.
I still play recreational sports every once in a while, but I have limited confidence in my knee. Preventing injury is always in the back of my mind, and it’s hard to play with any sort of intensity. But I’m partial to pick-up basketball, and I liken my playing style to that of a young Steve Nash. Other than the fact that I can’t really dribble, shoot, pass or rebound at all, Steve and I have similar games. Having a 10-inch vertical doesn’t help either.
All in all, I was the unfortunate recipient of a nasty injury and an equally awful set of surgeries.
But I’m a stronger man for it, and I can now divert my attention to the important things in life, like growing and sculpting a fantastic moustache. If there’s any advice I can give to the general public, it would be to not exploit the weaknesses of high school teams consisting of small-town farmboys. We’ve all seen Hoosiers, and based on my experience, it seems that karma has its way of working out in their favor.
-Joe Ciolli
Next in line: the shoulder
My illustrious baseball career came to a sudden end in the spring of 2000, my freshman year of high school and chance to be the starting third baseman for my JV baseball team.
Not to toot my own horn, but I wasn’t half bad at the hot corner. The past year I hit .328 with a team-leading 36 RBIs on my eighth grade team, and many of my good friends were all on the team. But after four traumatizing and excruciating dislocations to my right shoulder over the course of the academic year, I was forced to hang up the cleats and walk away from the game gracefully.
My first dislocation came on a blustery October day in gym class playing volleyball and going up for a spike. As I came down with my kill shot, a pop to my shoulder threw my arm out of its socket for a brief moment before it was pulled back in.
Two weeks later, again in gym class, the same thing happened while playing tennis, only this time my shoulder laid limply out of my socket for 20-30 seconds before popping back in. For a moment, the biggest gag reflex of my life came to life in the back of my throat and I nearly threw up.
Following these first two dislocations I decided to take it easy and let my shoulder recover. I didn’t know why this was happening, and didn’t think to go to a doctor. A few months passed and no further dislocations occurred. Then came the first day of JV baseball practice.
While warming up with one of my teammates, my shoulder decided to give me the proverbial slap in the face and dislocate in the worst manner yet. This time my shoulder muscles didn’t pull my socket back into place right away. It wasn’t until after I had been in the trainer’s room for about 20 minutes and after I started seeing double, being nauseous, feeling extremely light-headed, and nearly passing out that it reverted back into its natural place in my shoulder.
After that, I decided to go see a specialist. Turns out that all those years pitching and firing across the diamond from third caused the ligaments in the back of the shoulder to become abnormally strong and tight and the ligaments in the front of my shoulder to become weak and loose, effectively turning my arm and shoulder joint into a slingshot, throwing my shoulder out of its socket. I felt like Henry Rowengartner in the classic film “Rookie of the Year.” The choice was mine: surgery or physical therapy.
Not wanting surgery, I chose the latter, and went through eight weeks of grueling therapy three times a week in an attempt to get back to my old form. Things were going great, and after eight weeks I was placed onto a strict throwing program regiment where I would throw a certain amount of balls each day, increasing my distance by 30 feet each day.
On the third day of the program I was throwing from about 90 feet with my brother when a pop followed by an excruciating tear reverberated throughout my shoulder and arm. Four ligaments tore in two right off the bone, my muscles were strained spaghetti thin, nothing could hold my arm in its socket, and now the only option was surgery.
I took my lumps, had surgery, went through nine frustrating months of physical therapy, and when it was all over, I still couldn’t get to where I once was. My range of motion was never the same, and I couldn’t be the player I once was. My career was over. The Yankees stopped calling.
To occupy myself after school I turned to my high school newspaper, where I eventually went on to become the editor in chief. Once in college, well, alas, here I am.
While my foray into journalism and writing was probably for the best, I still can’t help but wonder what might have been if not for my fateful injury.
Every time I would walk past my school’s baseball field and see all my teammates and friends practicing and playing the game I loved, I couldn’t help but feel remorse. It was tough knowing that I should be out there with them, competing and having fun but being unable to.
Without the ability to be active for the better part of nine months I put on a whopping 20 pounds or so, which I wouldn’t be able to lose for another year or so after that. But more so than just weight gain, I lost something precious – the game I loved to play.
It’s one of many sad stories caused by sports injuries, and I’ve got the scars, both physical and mental, to prove it.
-Justin Davidson
I make Special Sauce all day.