I Sacrificed My ACL for Barack Obama and 9 Year Old Soccer Players

Given the recent news that I did indeed re-tear the graft of my already reconstructed ACL in my right knee at rugby practice six weeks ago, I am faring pretty well. It doesn't hurt. I should be grateful for that, but it just keeps me in stage number 1 of the 5 Stages of Grief - Denial. I told Jeff that I decided this morning that they had mistaken my MRI with some other moron who had ripped their ACL a second time and that I should go ahead and cancel my physical therapy appointment and just go to rugby practice tomorrow. Like I did for a month after I hurt it.

Here is how I am experiencing The Kubler-Ross model of the 5 Stages of Grief: 1.) Denial - "wrong MRI", "I don't really need an ACL", "It was a bad dream" 2.) Anger "I'm not sure I've ever heard of anyone with more sports injuries requiring surgical intervention that myself", "You need to stop singing that annoying song right now...PLEASE" , "Any person with intact ACLs is a total jerk" 3.) Bargaining "If I promise to never play rugby again, can I just keep playing everything else without an ACL?" "I'll wear a brace every day if I just don't have to do that surgery again" 4.) Depression "UGGHHH, pass the donuts" 5.) Acceptance "It's just a knee, at least I didn't break my neck", "The pain of surgery/rehab will be better than childbirth", "Now that I can't play rugby this fall, I have time to convince people to vote for Barack Obama and coach E's soccer team every Saturday"

So, the injury and subsequent forced end of my rugby career may actually have a silver lining. I now have time to call people during the dinner hour for the next two months and try to convince them that no one should care about their ACLs or any other inconsequential bullshit given the specter of the possibility of being governed by John McCain and Sarah Palin. Also, hopefully my kid will appreciate that I am pacing the sidelines every Saturday morning in a neon orange shirt, screaming directives that are never heeded, instead of riding in a car with a bunch of 20 something rugby players to some far off Midwest city to batter and bruise myself in the name of sport. I'm trying hard to believe that there's a reason for my bad luck.