Yes, I suffered discomfort for a couple of days and was forced to hop on one leg, but this I could bear with my dignity still intact. Otherwise, I would have been a mess, shouting in pain whenever a whiff of air touched the affected area. It’s that bad. And it gets worse. Imagine a throbbing pain that your whole body can feel and it doesn’t stop. It just keeps going and going like the Energizer Bunny.
I guess you’d have to go through what gout sufferers go through to understand and appreciate how lucky you non-gout sufferers are.
Let me put it this way. The experience can be so excruciating, with heat radiating from the swollen joint, not to mention the sharp, intense, burning pain and the constant piercing pain that feels like being stabbed with a lance or a needle, that I actually wish it on people who do me wrong or who annoy me. After which I ask the Almighty for forgiveness. Of course.
But hey, I already dedicated my previous column to this malady; let’s move on to the next medical scare. Because, let’s face it, at my age, there’s always a next.
So there I was. Three days after the initial onset. Wearing shoes. And, mind you, getting ready to play pickleball with my cousin and friends. In hindsight, if you know the English translation of “hilas,” that was how you would describe my confidence level that day.
I know. Some of you are wondering, “Publio? Play pickleball?” I mean, why not? I used to be an above-average tennis and ping-pong player in my day, so what’s another racket sport?
My cousin’s daughter had booked a court for three hours, which was enough to satisfy our athletic needs as there were eight of us taking turns to play the winners. Eight friends and relatives who realized that partaking in the fast-growing paddle sport was as good a bonding moment as attending a Bible study that served mouth-watering dishes.
I decided to sit out the first game. I was, after all, a novice who had only played three times before. I had yet to find my rhythm. Pickleball can actually be tricky. It looks deceptively simple, the kind that makes you think anyone can do it. And anyone can pick up a solid paddle, but not everyone can strike the perforated, hollow plastic ball. You see, the trick is making contact. To my chagrin, I found myself hitting the air several times when I first played the game.
I honestly thought I would be like a duck taking to water when I first stepped on the court. After all, there were so many elements that were familiar. The court reminded me of a tennis court, albeit smaller, while the paddle reminded me of a ping-pong racket, albeit larger. The ball was another matter altogether. I couldn’t put my finger on it, figuratively, then later on, literally. But I knew I would be able to adapt. And adapt I did.
At first, everything was easy peasy. In my mind, I pictured myself gliding down the court, hitting winners at different angles. But in reality, I couldn’t even reach the ball to strike it. But that didn’t stop me from going after it. Before long, I was getting the ball across the net and inside the lines. A feat in my book, but what others might call a regular rally, albeit a very brief one.
I went home that night thinking, if I practiced and got the hang of the fundamentals, I could actually be good at this, which excited me. Hence, my eagerness to get back to the court after the near-scare with gout that sidelined me for two days.
So there I was. The pain had become a distant memory 12 hours prior. I knew what I had to do. I had to get to the ball. I could not afford to wait for it like in tennis. That meant I had to be quick on my feet so I could be in position to strike that winning shot. It was all working in my head. I just had to manifest it.
And manifest I did. When I finally got to play with my doubles partner, I reminded myself not to overhit, to adjust my grip, to be nimble on my toes and to just have fun between my many expletives, for which I quietly and immediately asked for forgiveness.
My partner and I won the first game handily. My topspin serve turned out to be a killer. Not that I’m boasting. We switched sides for the second game. In the middle of a rally, while trying to reach a ball, I heard and felt a snap in my left calf, followed by extreme pain when my foot landed.
A member of the group, who happened to be a physical therapist, examined my injury. He asked me to move my foot around, which I managed to do. He told me not to worry; it was probably a muscle sprain. “But I heard a snap,” I told him. “And you would hear more snaps if you didn’t stretch before playing,” he retorted.
Obviously, I couldn’t continue playing and I ended up going home limping. I was advised to rest, so I haven’t been able to take my long walks or run either.
I should have just stuck to jogging.
