[follow_me]
If you’ve ever watched a Duke game at Cameron Arena, you know what basketball meant to my high school. Beloit Memorial dominated Wisconsin by winning 7 state titles and our “gym” was one of the most electric sports atmospheres I have ever seen.
Opposing teams loved and hated playing at the 4th Street Arena. The crowd was rabid and there was never an empty seat. Parents, jocks, geeks, thugs, and rebels alike went bananas over basketball. It was the only game in a blue collar town . . . us against the world.
The PA Announcer gave an apathetic introduction of the visiting team, then the lights dimmed and he’d launch into a spirited rant, “And NOW, here are YOUR Beloit Purple Knights!” The crowd would erupt with pre-ordained chants and you couldn’t help but get goosebumps.
It was bone chilling stuff and I lived for it as a child. Players wore purple blazers on game days and I watched in awe as future college stars and NBA draft picks electrified Friday nights in my otherwise sleepy town.
I made the team as a junior, but never played. In fact, I never even dressed for games, until one week I had a tremendous stretch of practice and elevated my status to 7th man going into a showdown with conference powerhouse, Madison Lafolette.
I was literally shaking when I put on that uniform before the game. I was uncontrollably jacked to get on that floor.
We stood in the tunnel waiting for the sophomore game to end and one of the seniors said he wanted me to lead them out. That gesture gives me chills till this day.
When the band (which is still kicking ass) launched into Chicago’s 25 or 6 to 4, it was our cue to run out, circle the entire court, then go into our layup line. The house was packed, and I was soaring.
My long hair flopped on my warm-up collar and I did my best not get distracted by the faces in the crowd. It was surreal. A freak show and I led the pack.
Like a open water swimmer, I came around the last buoy and sighted the goal. I was so pumped I contemplated throwing down the first dunk of my life. Thankfully I thought better of it, but exploded off the hardwood with more force than I’d ever generated in my life. That’s when it happened.
I landed with a thud and was suddenly limping toward the back of the rebound line. The ultimate high was replaced by a dark sorrow when I realized I’d blown my Achilles.
I fought through warmups and my coach obviously didn’t notice because after our pre-game huddle he said, “Mikey, I want you to sit here right next to me.”
Talk about an embarrassing moment. He was really going to play me!
I confessed my injury, then slid to the end of the bench to watch the cheerleaders. It was the first and last time I wore the purple blazer for Beloit Memorial High.
The Epilogue
Now, what seems like a million years later, I am once again nursing my left Achilles. I’m not sure how I healed it back then, but I remember it being a major pain in the ass.
I’m pretty sure there’s no shortcut and rest is the only answer, but I can’t afford to rest right now. I have a little thing called Ironman Louisville hanging out there in 47 days.
Three things are about to happen:
1. A bump in swimming and low intensity biking.
2. Lots of rolling pin/foam roller and massage.
3. An onslaught of fresh juice that includes bell peppers and cucumbers.
The latter is courtesy of the Juiceman, Jay Kordich, who claims peppers and cucumbers are loaded with silicone which is good for lubricating tendons.
I’m obviously concerned, but think I can manage this problem if I play it smart. I pushed too far on my run yesterday because I was being stupid and wanting to prove to myself I could finish before I started.
Unlike that one and done basketball game, I have a second chance at Ironman and my high school lesson reminds me to be patient. Ease into the day and don’t blow it all on the first layup.
