My playing days ended on March 16, 1996

It took years to harden my heart.

Suited up. Pre-Injury

My playing days ended on March 16, 1996 in Happy Valley, Pa. I’d push off my left knee only to be met with acute and intense pain. Such episodes had occurred throughout the season, my knee would lock up on a warm-up jog, or buckle during line drills. On that day it was far worse and more frequent. Six Advil at halftime got me through the game, but afterward I couldn’t even carry my equipment as I limped a ridiculous distance to the visitor's locker room.

I spent the next few days on crutches, got x-rays and an MRI, and when the doctor scoped it a week later, I naively figured I’d be on the field in a couple weeks.

Two unsuccessful surgeries over the next year left me hobbled and bitter. I symbolically suited up for our last game of my senior year. Once we gained a big enough lead, the plan was I’d see some crease attack action—try to score one last goal. But, we never got a big lead, in fact we lost. I don’t know if a last shot would have given me any closure, but being denied the opportunity made me angry. In a fit of self-pity, I took it as proof that the guys I used to play with (guys who still got to play while I unsuccessfully rehabbed) didn't give a damn. But honestly, I’d done more to shut myself out than they had to exclude me. I’m not that close to guys I played with in college (certainly not as close as I am with high school teammates), because I deemed my-own-damn-self a pariah when I could no longer play.

The bitterness festered amidst a volatile mix of inherent love of the game and hollow anger at a busted knee.

As an assistant high school lacrosse coach, frustration would rise when, unfairly or not, I would interpret a player’s lack of effort or preparation as a slight to the sport, an offense to those like me who had the game ripped away. I was often unhappy on the sideline, but couldn’t fathom resigning that post. And then, one summer when I was surrendering a week of vacation to coach a team camp, I broke down. I had taken it all so personally, for nearly a decade, and I needed to cut ties with the sport.

That cutting of ties didn't last all that long, but the act of it let me come back to lacrosse without the burden of that gaping open wound.

They called it “dashboard knee”, seen more in car accidents than the lacrosse field. The bent knee allows a massive traumatic blow to be delivered to the hard, smooth cartilage on the base of the femur and a chunk falls off. At first the diagnosis was delivered to me as good news (“Your knee structure—ACL, MCL—is in great shape”). But ACLs they can mend; I've had multiple surgeries on both knees. Been “non-weight bearing” on crutches for a month and a half each time. But I’m left with knees that swell to grapefruit size with a round of golf, or the mere thought of making a hard v-cut.

I am currently doing a painting featuring guys I played with in college, guys who made their mark, have accolades recorded in the program’s history. I’m not in it. I’m not bitter about that anymore.

Vs. Duke 1995

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