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Tough guy

A little over three weeks ago, on October 8, I was playing a particularly intense game of hockey.  The Capitals were locked in a 0-0 tie with their rivals, the Flatliners, whom they’d tied 4-4 on the opening day of the season.  I’d missed that opening game, but had played the next three, and I was off to a blistering start: nine goals, four assists (and three wins—that’s the important stat, of course, since there’s no “I” in “Capitals”).  Not bad for a 45-year-old man.  After a hat trick in a 6-0 win, one of my twenty-something teammates asked, “what’s with the youth elixir?” “Blood of virgins, my boy,” I replied.  “You can’t beat it with that Red Bull shit of yours.”

And though I didn’t light the lamp against the Flatliners, I helped break the game open in little ways.  There were about twelve minutes left when I backchecked against one of the Flatliners’ faster players, staying between him and the puck deep in our zone and giving our defenseman a little room to start up ice.  This infuriated the guy for some reason, so he squeezed past me and took a run at the defenseman; for this he got two minutes for charging, and as he stormed off the ice indignantly, whined to the ref that he was only retaliating for “interference” from me (a charge of which, I assure you, I was completely innocent).  Then, on the ensuing power play, I took the puck into the Flatliners’ zone wide on the left side and was pursued by another of their better players—who, finding it impossible to strip me of the puck as I came in on net, took my feet out from under me.  Tweet!  Just like that, the Flatliners had two guys in the box, and we had a rare (for our league) five-on-three.  We scored on a scramble in front of the net thirty seconds later; I assisted on the goal.  On my next shift, I sprung my center on a breakaway with a crisp pass off a faceoff, and he converted.  We added a very late goal to make it 3-0.

But when I was taken down on that power-play rush, I hit my head hard.  It was still ringing slightly after the game, so when I got home I took some ibuprofen.  Still, it was a minor injury at most, and hey—I simply took one for the team, because there’s no “I” in “power play.”

The next morning, though, I noticed a very strange thing: my head was fine, but my right hip was all screwy.  I could walk and run OK, but I had no lateral motion with my right leg—or, rather, I had very limited lateral motion with pain.  You know the “getting into car” motion?  Right, well, I couldn’t do that.  I thought that maybe it was a hip pointer or something, but it didn’t seem severe enough for a doctor’s visit.  I decided I would simply take it easy and avoid that week’s Tuesday Night Old Guys’ Game.

And now here comes the critical pivot of the story.

When last we saw Jamie on this blog, he was jumping off diving boards.  But what I didn’t tell you was that since the beginning of the fall semester he’s also ventured into two more new sports:  he’s played three rounds of golf with me, smackin’ the ball with aplomb every tenth or eleventh swing (unlike every other golfer on the planet, he does not get frustrated); more important, he’s started his first karate class.  It’s a Wednesday night Tang Soo Do at the local Y, and it’s something he’s wanted to do for many years, not least because his big brother has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and Jamie has long been fascinated with Nick’s martial-arts prowess.  But as I watched the first class from the sidelines, I thought Jamie seemed kind of lost, and though his instructor was gentle and kind with him, I could tell that when the class broke up into smaller groups, his attention wandered.  So I did the sensible thing: next time around, I signed up for the class and took my place next to him at the back of the class with the neophyte white belts.

The first two classes went well.  Jamie approached the kicks and the forms with the same dedication he’d been giving to his golf game, practicing again and again with great patience.  At the end of our second class he’d learned form one, which involves all kinds of low blocks, spins, straight punches, and forward kicks; form two involves the same motions but with high blocks, high punches, and side kicks.  The class starts off with 75 jumping jacks and lots of calisthenics, some of which Jamie can do, some of which he can’t.  But his spirit, as they say in the business, is indomitable.  “If we keep working hard,” I told him after the second class, “we can take the test to become orange belts.”

“Michael,” he replied dismissively, “I’m gonna be a black belt.”

“Wow!” I said.  “OK, that’ll take a lot of work, and a couple of years.  It took Nick five or six years, you know.” He nodded.

But after my little hip injury, I wasn’t sure I was up for 90 minutes of kicking and flailing up and down a basketball court, and I told Jamie I might have to skip the class.  “You will not have to skip the class!” he insisted.  “You can do it!”

How could I refuse?  I promised him I would do my best.

And so it happened that I was making my way downcourt at 8:30 pm three weeks ago today, doing the weakest little side kicks you ever did see, with my tender right leg lifting my foot only about eight inches off the floor.  Then we were told to do back kicks, which Jamie and I hadn’t really learned yet; for these we would have to take a half-step back, pivot, and kick with our heel to the ceiling and our back to our “opponent.” I winced audibly on the first few, and then, to my right, I heard a crash.  Jamie had wiped out.

At first I thought he’d simply spun a bit too much on the pivot and lost his balance.  But he was splayed on the court with his right leg fully extended, and he said, in an oddly broken voice, “my knee.”

The knee in question was very ugly: the patella had somehow slid off to the right side of the leg, and the little hollow left in its place was getting purple fast.  He had dislocated his knee.  Badly.

I immediately did something I would never have done if I’d had time to think: I rushed to his side, held his leg carefully, and popped the patella back into place.  Because I remembered that Jamie’s mother, the elusive and mysterious and scarily double-jointed Janet Lyon, had dislocated her knee twenty years earlier.  Of course, she’d done it while doing the limbo, and of course, she’d done it while doing the limbo when the bar was about eighteen inches off the floor, because she is really, really scarily double-jointed.  But still.  Jamie’s leg looked terrible; it looked like Janet’s leg; Janet had dislocated her knee at a party thrown by her fellow nurses; one of the nurses had popped her patella back into place and placed a bag of ice on it; so without further ado, I popped Jamie’s patella back into place. 

The class came to a halt, of course, while I was doing this, and the instructor helped me walk Jamie gingerly over to the stands, making sure he didn’t place any weight on his right leg.  Someone else got a bag of ice from the Y bag-of-ice stash.  I told Jamie we were done for the night and were going home, perhaps going to the hospital . . . and he was more upset about this than about anything else.

Because, you know, my Jamie does not cry.  He does not scream.  When he is in great pain—say, when his kneecap suddenly slides from the front of his leg to the side—he speaks in a strange little voice and he says, “my knee—I broke my knee.” That is all.  Then he gets angry.  Whether at the pain or at the fuss or at his father telling him he was done for the night, I do not know.  But I told him his knee was not, in fact, broken.  It had just been—a new word—dislocated.  In the wrong place.

The instructor and I took him to the locker room and got his things together.  I let the instructor know that Jamie’s mother is a former R.N. and would take over with him the minute I got him home, but that for now there was no reason to call an ambulance.  And that as far as future classes went, we would just play it by ear.  (He called over the next weekend to check in on Jamie.  That was very kind, I thought.)

When I got Jamie home a few minutes later, Janet was first surprised at our early arrival and then horrified, not least because she remembered very well how much her own dislocation had hurt.  We sat Jamie down on the couch and made him comfortable and watched some TV while keeping his leg up and iced.  Janet told me that she’d recently seen Jamie popping his knee out slightly: apparently he could do it at will, and she’d warned him that it was a dangerous thing to do and he shouldn’t be doing it.  But, she added, the sight had filled her with dread, because Jamie’s loose-jointedness was precisely like her own loose-jointedness, and she’d begun to worry that it might cause problems for him down the road.  And here we were, already down that road.

Jamie, meanwhile, was feeling much better.  He was still a little tentative, and seemed a little worried that his knee could really go that far out of joint, but he wasn’t in any pain at all.  Janet turned to me and gave me the highest praise in her lexicon: you did exactly the right thing. Yes, well.  It has occurred to me often in the past three weeks that if I’d somehow made things worse by trying to replace the patella on the spot, I could have given Jamie a very serious injury.  It is, perhaps, a good thing that I was not entirely sure what I was doing.

Jamie is just fine now, though he’s (understandably) a bit more protective about the knee. We ask him how it is, and he says it’s OK, and he is not impatient with our asking him, day after day.  Amazingly, he didn’t miss his Tang Soo Do classes on October 18 or 25, and he’s going again tonight, whereas I missed last week (too busy) and will miss this one (traveling).  Janet wrapped him up in a knee brace and Ace bandage two weeks ago, and just the brace last week.  We spoke to the instructor and we’re all on the same page: for now, no jumping jacks, no hyperextensions, and very gentle side and back kicks.  More or less the kind of E-Z kicking I’d been doing when Jamie went down.  But the funny thing is that while it took me a week and a half to recover from my wussy little hip injury (and of course I haven’t played my weekend games since October 14, because of all this traveling about), Jamie hasn’t missed a step.  Because, you know, he’s really one tough guy.

Posted by on 11/01 at 04:34 PM

  1. My admiration for Jamie is just boundless. But you’re starting to show signs of Gordie Howe-type stardom (which gives you about 35 more years in your hockey career). Keep your stick butt and elbows out in the corners. I use these tactics in faculty meetings myself.

    Posted by  on  11/01  at  06:32 PM

  2. Holy cow: just reading the word “patella” gives me the willies.

    I hope both of you will be back in Gumby-like shape before long. And hopefully Jamie will stop playing with his knee after this experience!

    Sounds like a great and determined kid. If he’s available, we could use him in the GNF party.

    Posted by  on  11/01  at  06:37 PM

  3. I’ve never dislocated my kneecap, but I have sprained my knee several times and I think the term “excruciating” just about sums up the experience. Kudos to Jamie for his stoic endurance of pain then! “Tough” is the right word.

    Posted by John Protevi  on  11/01  at  06:45 PM

  4. Glad to hear he’s doing better.  Speaking as another lucky soul with wandering kneecaps (I’ve got a little of the double-jointed thing going myself - there’s a reason I’m a goalie), a pretty simple tape job might work to keep the patella on its best behavior.  If he doesn’t mind the brace, it’s not necessary, but the horseshoe brace I had always drove me nuts.  The tape was much better. 

    Keep up the backchecking…

    Posted by Marita  on  11/01  at  08:54 PM

  5. What a family! A dad who kicks hockey ass, a mom who could limbo like Elastigirl, and a lad who is one tough mofo. You’re like the non-CGI Incredibles.

    Posted by Orange  on  11/01  at  09:07 PM

  6. From your description of the Flatliners, it sounds like the young W would have fit right it.

    Posted by  on  11/01  at  09:34 PM

  7. Holy cow: just reading the word “patella” gives me the willies.

    Me too. No kidding. I made an o mouth (not an “o face"), howled louder than the very loud Hawkwind I’m listening to right now (don’t ask), and wagged my little arms back and forth like a T Rex.

    Then I kept reading. My best to all of you.

    Posted by  on  11/01  at  09:53 PM

  8. I know your posts about Jamie are supposed to make us happy, but all I could think about was how, at age 18, I screamed and cusssed and pounded and writhed and babbled incoherently when my kneecap slid to the side of my leg during a football game.

    Jamie is really, really tough.  Like, Chuck Norris tough.

    Posted by Lance  on  11/01  at  10:35 PM

  9. Not to be disrespectful or anything--I mean, I think Jamie’s great, what little I know of him--but what is this obsession with toughness in our culture? Where does it come from? Why is it so valorized? Is it about masculinity? Independence? Or just about not giving up, not letting the little stuff get you down, etc. (dare I say overcoming)?

    captcha: aid

    Posted by  on  11/01  at  11:27 PM

  10. Well, tough is the opposite of dead. So, in that sense, it’s a good thing.

    Listen old man; the sports injuries just don’t get any easier. A few months ago I tore open a hole in my left palm big enough to fit a golf ball through . Or perhaps a deep blue demonic cat’s eye? This event also bore a fractured elbow socket and a completely obliterated bicycle helmet (wear your helmet people - it’ll save your life). Basically, I had a steep gravel-paved hill situation, compounded by a fairly heavy backpack and a five hour wait for the best morphine I’ve ever had in my life. But that’s not the point.

    I’m happy to say I’m still a pretty fast healer, but I’m noticing, just not the healer I was when I was a youngster. Though I certainly come from the “use it or lose it” school of body maintenance, I’m realizing that I’m going to have to employ some discretion, and perhaps, you know, avoid the EXTREME(tm) trails. My elbow is still a little creeky, and I’ve lost quite a bit of mobility. Mobility is a good thing, and like toughness, sort-of the opposite of dead.

    captcha: face, as in, keeping it on my skull.

    Posted by Central Content Publisher  on  11/02  at  02:20 AM

  11. Fact: Time waits for no man.  Unless that man is Jamie Bérubé.

    Posted by Heraclitus  on  11/02  at  02:50 AM

  12. Fact:  when Chuck Norris goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Jamie Bérubé.

    Posted by Michael  on  11/02  at  02:58 AM

  13. Amazingly, he didn’t miss his Tang Soo Do classes on October 18 or 25

    That is amazing.

    Excelling in hockey at age 45 isn’t to shabby, either. But I’m not sure it’s appropriate. Do the taxpayers know you’re out there? Isn’t there some kind of Roethlisberger clause in your contract?

    Posted by  on  11/02  at  08:40 AM

  14. I’m envious of Jaime’s control.  Several years ago, while playing a game of pick-up basketball, I came down from grabbing a rebound and landed on someone’s foot.  The entire gym stopped playing when they heard me scream as I hit the floor.  The best part was when my toes turned a greenish-yellow later in the week, which looked oh so nice with the blackish-purple color of the ankle itself. 

    A year later I did it to the other ankle in an intramural 2-on-2 game, which we had to forfeit despite being ahead.

    I’ve also dislocated my left elbow twice, the most recent time from falling off a second floor balcony.

    Not fun at all.

    Posted by  on  11/02  at  09:52 AM

  15. I’ve also dislocated my left elbow twice, the most recent time from falling off a second floor balcony.

    Christ, how’d that happen?

    Posted by  on  11/02  at  10:11 AM

  16. V. Ed, I do have a Roethlisberger clause in my contract, as it happens.  It stipulates that for so long as I engage in this taxpayer-financed shakedown operation, I will wear a helmet.  But then, of course, Penn State only receives 10 percent of its budget from public funds, so I only have to wear it ten percent of the time.

    The contract also contains the subtle suggestion that I should pass more often.  See, my career stats in the Nittany Hockey League (I’m now in my sixth season) are 261 goals, 145 assists.  Don’t tell the trolls.

    And Janet tells me that Jamie did just fine last night!

    Posted by Michael  on  11/02  at  11:00 AM

  17. Re: #9, that’s a good point. I’d say however that toughness as the ability to tolerate pain is a human ability that has been false attributed to “masculinity,” as everyone since Euripides onward has known (Medea: “I’d rather stand in the phalanx in battle three times than go through childbirth again” or something to that effect).

    Posted by John Protevi  on  11/02  at  11:05 AM

  18. According to the American Medical Women’s Association, “women are more sensitive to pain than men”.

    If only it were that simple though - studies vary widely. The mythology that men are tougher than women (true or not), does encourage women to exaggerate pain and suffering, while encouraging men to minimize pain and suffering. This is an unfortunate reality that’s very hard to adjust for. It doesn’t just taint studies about relative pain sensitivity, but also various studies measuring violence, risk, and endurance.

    That said, I would imagine that the mythology of “toughness” in men was attributed not so much because men are tougher, but because they have traditionally been more frequently placed in situations where “toughness” was a serious factor.

    However, if you want to judge people’s relative reactions to pain, kidney stones are a much better standard than pregnancy. After all, it’s hard for men to have babies. Or branding. Here’s something you can try at home. Get ten friends together, a branding iron, and some hot coals. Then…

    (Note: people can react radically different to the same stimulus depending on the context in which the stimulus is administered.)

    Posted by Central Content Publisher  on  11/02  at  03:23 PM

  19. The knee in question was very ugly: the patella had somehow slid off to the right side of the leg, and the little hollow left in its place was getting purple fast.  He had dislocated his knee.  Badly.

    Well that is as far as i am going.  You had me there up until then, what with the hockey and willingness to take on a serious study of martial arts with Jamie.  But, having had reconstruction on both knees, way too much rehab, and the joy of patellar tendonitis in both knees, reading the above makes me woozy.  I can only suggest that rehab for both of you, with lots of daily icing, will make life better sooner rather than later.

    Posted by  on  11/02  at  03:50 PM

  20. I have a similar problem with my knee—I highly recommend visiting a physical therapist, who can give you exercises to allow his muscles to pick up some of the slack of his loose joints.  Worked wonders for me.

    As did getting a $100 knee brace, as a matter of fact.  Not too expensive, considering the alternative.

    Posted by  on  11/02  at  05:28 PM

  21. No. The truth is that young people, that is people under the age of 55 or so, don’t really feel physical pain. I know Jamie won’t believe it - if someone had told me this when I was his age I would not have believed it either. But it’s true.

    The pain they _should_ be feeling is not destroyed. It is conserved, and is kept on their behalf by some unknown agency.

    It is like buying into a pension scheme. When you become stricken in years, which varies according to the individual, the policy matures and all the pain you have banked over the years is paid back to you, with accrued interest, and in regular instalments.

    When that happens you can forget the ibuprofen, Professor Berube. The only sure respite is to take up distance running. After running 20 miles or so nothing else hurts at all.

    Posted by  on  11/02  at  06:37 PM

  22. After running 20 miles or so nothing else hurts at all.

    I can verify that and so can my 53-year-old brother. Endorphins and rhythm are powerful pain-relievers.  You should try it.

    Anywho, coming late to this post, which made me as woozy as many of the other commenters (but not as sick as the idea of internal bleeding does) but I toughed it how to hear how Jamie is doing.  And wow—he *is* tough.  Three cheers for Jamie and continued wishes for his recovery (and also for never, ever dislocating his knee again)!

    Posted by Dr. Virago  on  11/03  at  11:21 AM

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