Dab-KNEE? Gui-KNEE? Hi-KNEE? No, my knee. (Part I)

That pesky ACL...


It was the spring of 2000. I was 23, had graduated from Rutgers College in May 1999, and was living (in sin) near New Brunswick, sharing an apartment with my then-girlfriend, now-wife Lisa. She was finishing her fifth year of the five-year program to get her Masters in English Education. Being a pansy, I backed out of the math version of this program, and was selling software on the phone for $25K/year while she was finishing and I was getting my act together.

Due to a glitch in the system, my ID card still worked at the Rutgers College gymnasiums, despite the fact that I graduated a year earlier. So, I'd often still go to the gym on weekends or in the evenings to play pickup basketball.

It was a Saturday, and I was playing at Sonny Werblin. There was a healthy, but not overwhelming crowd there. (A solid three-game wait for hours, I'd say). The team I was on won for a few games straight until we finally lost a game. I was in a pumped up state and knowing we'd had to wait a while, I ran over to the weight room despite being exhausted. I pounded out a few sets of what I could muster up the energy for, which at the time was mainly leg stuff (quads, hamstrings, etc...). I ran back to play again.

Our team started playing. It was early on in the game, and I got the ball on a semi-fast break with one guy running even with me on defense. I made it look like I was going to try to go up strong for a lay-up and he got ready to block the shot. Instead, I stopped and just up-faked and he went flying by. I then was open for an easy lay-up. However, while this was happening, I felt a sickening feeling in my knee. The best description is a sudden pop or give in my knee. I crumpled to the ground (though somehow I made the layup - to this day I don't remember how). Quickly realizing I hurt myself, I called for a sub from the guys who were waiting - as it protocol when one injures their ankle, knee, whatever, and cannot continue at a pick-up game. I slid myself off to the side of the court and rested against the bleachers, legs extended. Guys asked if they should get somebody for ice ("Somebody get me some FUCKING ICE!" - A.B.) and I declined, not realizing the severity of my injury and the abbreviation "ACL" having not yet entered my vocabulary.

I sat for a minute, watching the game annoyed that I could not compete. But quickly my head started to turn. The thought process was something like this: "Oh shit, I'm not supposed to be here. What if an attendant does come? I'm 23 and finally on my own health insurance. What if I'm somehow liable for this? What if, because I'm not legally allowed to be here, I get sent to the E.R. and have to pay for it?" (At the time, I didn't fully understand how medical coverage worked.) This whirlwind of thought built up until I was like, "I better get the fuck out of here."

I stood up and realized in about 1 second how bad my knee was. It gave when I put weight on it. Somehow, I limped to the car like a wounded soldier in a war movie and drove the 3.2 miles or so back to my apartment.


View Larger Map

Ok, you really didn't need a map showing what the drive was like from the gym to my apartment in 2000. But, for those more distractable readers, I wanted to give you another picture to look at.

Anyway, I hobbled up the stairs and laid down. Lisa came home shortly thereafter from a job fair in Edison (she was interviewing for her first teaching position for the following September) and I told her I hurt my knee at the gym. Somehow, we came to the conclusion that I should go up to Teaneck and stay with my family (maybe she was visiting her parents the next day? We both don't remember.) Anyway, so I drove the 45 minutes up to Teaneck and stayed at my father's house that night. We unfolded the sofa in the living room, as going up stairs seemed too daunting.

That night was the most physically painful night of my life. I'd broken my hand and both wrists before, and had back pain that hindered me from playing sports as a kid and made me see a chiropractor three times a week while I was growing (age 14 and 15), and nothing compared to the feeling in my knee when it started to swell that night. I called my wife, crying / whining / complaining, and as all of my family does, she thought I was being dramatic and gently soothed me while thinking in her head, "Stop being such a baby."

As the next few days unfolded, I realized the severity of the injury, got checked out by a couple of inept doctors before I found a decent one in Paramus who informed me that I had torn my ACL. I found out what this was all about, had the reconstructive surgery in May of 2000, and went through the physical therapy and assorted rehabiliation that summer. By the following autumn, I was a strapping young man of 24, I started my teaching career, and was playing pickup basketball again both outside and inside various gyms.

"But, Walt, why are you bothering to tell us about an injury you sustained 9 years ago? I mean, great story and all, but..."

I'm glad you asked. Now I'm 32, a few pounds heavier yet much more life-experienced, and I am going to get the ACL surgery again in the same knee. The surgery is scheduled for June 24, 2009, the day after the high-school year ends.

"But why? Did the initial one fail? Did you re-tear it?"

Ahh... faithful reader... that will have to wait until tomorrow, for Part II of this post. Stay tuned.