Posted on: Monday, May 9, 2005

ABOUT MEN

By Peter Boylan
Advertiser Staff Writer

Being macho hurts.

About a week ago, I was playing pickup basketball with co-workers in Kaka'ako when I collided with the Korean incarnation of Karl Malone while battling for a board.

For starters, my basketball experience is limited to pickup games and intramural leagues. By no means am I skilled, and my opponent was a former varsity letterman from Maryknoll.

Bottom line, my left foot comes down on one of his, it bends awkwardly outward, and I collapse, screaming like a girl.

My girlfriend, who has been jogging near the park, comes running over, the game stops, the players gawk. No foul. Unbelievable.

My adrenaline pumping, I took a moment, stood up, and tried to walk it off. My girlfriend is pleading with me to accept a ride home, going so far as to pawn herself off as the one unwilling to walk. Nope, I said, shaking my head, I'm hoofing it.

So for almost 300 yards, through crosswalks and over speed bumps, I dragged my bulging, throbbing left foot because I wanted to be a man and conquer the pain.

Looking back, how foolish was that?

At the rate I was moving, small children were crawling past me, and by the time I got home, my foot looked like a blown up surgical glove. If I'd swallowed my pride and taken the ride, the ice would have been on before the swelling really started. Maybe I could have hit the Royal Capitol Plaza mini-mart before it closed, and I would not only have had ice, but a six-pack of foot medicine.

After limping my way into my apartment, I collapsed on the couch.

Anyone who has turned an ankle or twisted a foot knows what it's like to hop around like an injured kangaroo. Losing the use of a limb immediately transforms simple life tasks into painful, ridiculous ordeals.

Using the bathroom requires an exaggerated yoga pose. Grabbing the soap and shampoo in the shower while balancing on one leg becomes a tap dance. And despite the difficult nature of these previously mundane activities, I refused to ask for help.

Thankfully, I have a girlfriend capable of rescuing me from the depths of my immaturity. She also happens to be a former Division I athlete who has witnessed a wide array of injuries and has developed a variety of methods for coping.

She started with tacos and beer (a brilliant remedy, I thought), and soon the throbbing began to subside.

After dinner, I reclined on the couch and waited for a friend of mine to bring me a set of crutches that his mother had saved from his accident-laden youth. Meanwhile, my girlfriend used a zip-closure bag, some cellophane and a lot of ice to wrap my foot up.

As I opened another Guinness, I reflected on the lesson I had learned.

Some things you just can't walk off.

Reach Peter Boylan at 535-8110 or pboylan@honoluluadvertiser.com.