Today’s find: PT (Pickle ball Trauma)

Mention a “Joe Theismann injury” to even casual sports fans, and you’ll get one of two reactions.

From those younger than 45 or so, it’s pretty much a blank stare. Among the silverbacks, however, the response tends to be much more visceral: a groan, a scrunched face, a shake of the head.

I’ve been observing this phenomenon a lot in recent days, having just been up-close-and-personal with my first-ever “Joe Theismann-type” trauma. (Joe suffered his during a Monday Night Football game in 1985 – and anyone who saw it can never forget the specter of his lower leg going this way…and his foot going that way. Positively gruesome.)

The audience was much smaller the other day when one of my pickle ball mates went down just a few minutes into our weekly session. I didn’t see it happen, but soon enough I got a stomach-turning view of the aftermath: “leg going this way, foot going that…”

The scene of the incident…

And I can now report there are few more helpless feelings in the world than to be sitting next to your seriously-wounded companion as you both wait for the paramedics to arrive. A touch of the shoulder…a whispered prayer…a sip of Gatorade – they all seem like hopelessly inadequate gestures in the moment. But you do the best that you can do, I suppose.

Before long, there were signs that our prayers for our mate were actually being answered, practically in real-time: Dozens of tiny little details all started falling into place…with the net effect that we knew our mate was now being well cared for at the hospital, was in fact already beginning the long road to recovery with family members at his side, and that our tender mercies were pretty much no longer required in the moment.

So guys being guys, we played on. We actually finished our match…while fielding inquiries from the perfect strangers who were playing pickle ball on the courts all around us. And in the days since then, I’ve been kept fairly busy providing status reports to the many people who do know and love our fallen mate.

The aftermath…

And as I’ve pondered the injury and the aftermath, I’ve had occasion to reflect on its genesis. I only play pickle ball, I realized, because of love. The core of our regular group, you see, are men I’ve known (and cherished) since we were boys. The five of us have literally counted each other as dear friends for over 60 years.

Nothing less than such a bond could have tempted me to take up pickle ball in the first place. (A game like golf is much more my speed!) And I’m still sorting through what this latest Pickle ball Trauma might be trying to teach us less-than-sure-footed silverbacks.

That said, I think I’ve managed to detect a sign of God’s presence in this painful mess. I realize I’m blessed to know a little something about loving another (even several others) with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind. The Holy One can certainly be found in the wonder and mystery of such lifelong friendships – a blessed assurance that makes it possible (as Jesus exhorts us) to love my neighbor as myself.

The “pickle paddle salute” we texted to our fallen mate, as we played on…

Let us pause now…to recall that we are in the presence of the Holy & Merciful One.

IHS