When I Knee'd You

When I Knee'd You

Two weeks ago I found myself home earlier than usual.  By chance, I tuned into the Yankee pregame show and they were just announcing some breaking news.  Mariano Rivera had hurt his knee chasing down a fly ball during batting practice.  As a fan, I knew this pregame ritual was not new for him.  The talking heads said the local media caught the incident on video.  As we all watched, they focused on his knee hitting the outfield wall and how he must have bruised it…he banged it pretty hard.  However that is not what I saw.  A step before the wall something went wrong, very wrong…you see, I have taken that fateful step myself.

It was the fall of 1985 and my dorm football team had topped off a successful season with an intramural championship.  The year melted into the next and hockey was on the docket.  Not having this sport available at Drexel, I helped form a team through my cooperative job.  We practiced for weeks and the team’s schedule arrived.  We opened our season January 29^th, 1986.  The day before our game, my roommate and I awoke to some somber news.  A pounding on our door and we were alerted to turn on the tube.  Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground…the space shuttle Challenger had exploded.  People piled into our room, it was one of the few with a TV…and a bar.  We spent the better part of the day watching.  The world changed a bit that day, little did I know mine would change the very next.

The hockey game started like any other.  Towards the end of the first period, of our first game, it happened.  I was going into the offensive zone and took a step to avoid a defender's hit.  It was the last step my right ACL would ever take.  The pop in my knee shook the very core of my body.  I remember hearing the opposing player plead to the Ref, “I didn’t even touch him!”  It didn't matter.  I was helped off.  I would watch the remainder of the game, and the season, from the bench.

Growing up I endured every bump and bruise a boy could imagine…but this was different.  Two days passed and the swelling did not subside.  I stubbornly set off to the hospital where I was informed the knee had to be drained.  It was almost comical the size of the needle needed.  The Doc detailed that the color of the liquid would indicate the severity of the damage.  In my own words…If it’s clear no fear, If it's red have dread.  It was red.  I had an ACL tear, but how bad was not known.  Rehab was my first and less intrusive option…so this was the road taken.

My college cohorts were a bustling bunch and I began to miss out.  My Saturday ski trips were no more.  One of those adventures included Midnight Madness…the slopes were open from 12am to 6am.  The dorm was never so empty…and silent.  I was starting to see this ligament loss was solitary confinement.  I concentrated on my rehab so I could quickly recover, but to no avail.  MRI’s were in its infancy and x-rays were only fruitful for fractures…they would have to go in.  Arthroscopic surgery was scheduled for August 7^th, 1986.

The minor surgery was a success and cartilage was cleaned out, however a completely torn ACL was confirmed.  Once again rehab was on the menu.  However this time, with the cartilage repaired, the knee functioned better.  I was fitted for a brace, one in which Mark Gastineau himself, after a recent playoff victory, triumphantly displayed in a photo on the back of Newsday.  Slowly the sports came back…football, hockey and eventually skiing.   Winter break brought back the slopes and I was sprung from solitary.  The college crowd rented a house near Shawnee, our hill of choice.  Day one I took it easy and that evening we all celebrated my successful return.  The second day would not be so kind.  After a stop for dinner, we headed back for a few runs.  Shadows fell and the limited lighting was turned on.  I never saw the dip.  Before I knew it I was airborne.  When the knee was whole, I would try and achieve as much air as possible.  But now, as I came down, the brace could not hold the knee together.  Ski patrol was summoned and I got the bumpy toboggan ride down.

I returned to my doctor and the knee needed to be drained again.  My mom was with me that day.  For whatever reason, through this whole process, she had been adamant that I was NOT to have the intrusive major surgery.  The needle was brought out, so large it might have felled Quint’s shark.  My Mom was a very strong woman.  But on that day she saw her son harpooned and she got queasy.  She asked, “Is that what you have to go through each time the knee is drained?”  I just shook my head yes.  Major surgery was scheduled for June 22^nd, 1987.

It has been 26 years, 3 months, 2 weeks and 3 days since the injury.  There have been good days, there have been bad days…but luckily no further surgeries.  Over this period of time I would go to see several knee experts…ones who worked for the Jets (my friend’s Dad still had a connection!), Islanders, Devils and Knicks.  In sports, after ACL surgery on a player, you hear that they are back to 100%.  I can tell you that they never really are…neither physically nor mentally.  I continued to play sports but my brace was always in tow.  I even went back to skiing…but nothing was ever quite the same.

My current hockey team's locker room is now filled with braces, bandages and Ben Gay...masking players previous maladies.  Some of them minor, some of them major…each with their own story…and this is mine.  When one step changed everything.

And I will always recognize when I see that fateful step.