Woe is Knee

I had hoped my knee injury occurred due to doing something really heroic. Like carrying children from a burning orphanage or scoring the winning goal against the Russians in some World Cup hockey contest while a feisty defenseman hacked at me in a futile attempt to stop me.

No, instead, the medial meniscus tore in my left knee as I was hauling my fat ass up some steps at work.

I stepped, turned and…. Ouch. The “pop” noise was almost as loud as the bad word that fell out of my mouth.

Such is the price of getting old, I guess. I ended up going to the doctor two days later when the knee continued to swell and I had the gait of a wooden peg-legged pirate with termite issues. The doc took an x-ray which showed a chip of cartilage floating around. He diagnosed it as a torn meniscus and said I had a better than 50-percent chance of facing surgery. Because I have two jobs and no time for operations, I vowed to prove that theory wrong. (I also have a horrid fear of catheters installed during surgeries. My friend once told me a doctor pulled his catheter out as if he was starting a lawn mower. Also, I don’t want the last thing I hear before succumbing to anesthesia is a nurse saying, “Get the six-year-old boy-sized catheter for this one…”)

Two weeks later, I went to an orthopedic doctor who waggled the knee around , gave me a cortisone shot and bade me well, saying if it kept hurting to see him again. He said the x-ray showed arthritis and wear and tear and he equated my knee situation to a large rock (my body, apparently) being held up by a flimsy soda straw (my left knee hinge). Eventually the knee threw in the towel, saying it was tired of hefting my heft around all the time.

Age is a bummer at my age. When I was young, I never thought of how a body wears down. We used to sneak out of our grade school by jumping out of second story windows and scampering off. I’d fall on my knees constantly while trying to play hockey and we’d leap off of shed roofs while playing, slamming to the ground, rolling around and then getting up to run again.  When I was 16, I had an x-ray that showed a faint, old hairline fracture in my left knee cap. The doctor said standing could be a problem. I promptly got an afterschool job as a dishwasher, standing for the entire eight-hour shift while using a high-pressure sprayer to soak the dishes and my clothing.

I ignored any signs of aging until I did get old. We have a couch at home that sinks in. I need a forklift, rope and Sherpa to lead me out of its clenches because my knees aren’t good enough to propel me out. Holly could just glide right up, but I was straining and popping and cursing the existence of the couch each time I got up.

Now, I sit on a chaise couch thing to put my knee up for quelling the swelling. It helps, but, again, because I’m old, I tend to fall asleep in the thing at the Olde Age Hour of 8 p.m.

And here’s the APBA part: Because of all this, I’m not getting to play the 1947 APBA baseball replay I’m doing at the pace I’ve become accustomed to. Sitting at the baseball game desk for longer than 30 minutes now tends to stiffen the knee.  It’s awful saying that. It seems like it was just recently I was running to my friend’s house in northern Minnesota to play football and baseball in his back yard. Now, I limp to the television set to turn on football and baseball.

I was given a shocking reminder of how old I’ve gotten. I was driving back from the pharmacy late last night. I had a different radio station on than usual and heard the old Elton John song “Someone Saved My Life Tonight.” I was immediately transported back to when I was a 17-year-old driving around playing that song on the Elton John’s Greatest Hits 2 album on the 8-track player in my car.

Although I hadn’t heard the song in a long while, I knew all the words and actually sang along (I was alone in the car and it was close to 2 a.m. Most people were sleeping and didn’t have to hear my ‘singing’ as I cruised through their neighborhoods.) I remember how the 8-track split the song up when it shifted tracks and could actually sing the “ka-chunk” of the track change when it happened during the tune.

Then, I realized, that album came out in 1977… 43 years ago (and coincidently the same time I began playing APBA). It just seemed like a moment ago I was driving around howling the same lyrics.

The knee, like the rest of me, is aged. It’s done its job holding me up for more than five decades and I understand the phrase “Wear and tear” a lot more now than when I was a kid. I’d tap my foot to the beat of Elton John’s song like I used to, but it hurts my knee, so I keep that leg still.

The APBA Community

I don’t think there’s a closer group of people who share the kinship and bonding of community than those who play APBA.

Sure, there’s probably other groups that have similar likes and have the comradery of togetherness. Sometimes, the more obscure the organization, the closer the members seem to be. I’m sure the Left-Handed Morticians Association of America group has a secret handshake and an offshoot group of the Flat Earth Society – some gathering of folks who think the earth is flat, but has rounded edges – probably sings a rousing club song together.

But the APBA community, in my opinion, has to be the closest collection of people there is.

And here’s my reasoning: Our people reach out to each other. Just the other day, a member asked me which season I’d like if I could chose one. I said I’d probably next get 1927 because of Babe Ruth and the Yankees. I’m working on a story for a magazine about how Ruth hit a spring training home run in Hot Springs, Ark., in 1918 that changed the perception of him from being a pitcher to a batter and I was interested in that era. I also mentioned that I would like to eventually buy the 1965 season set of cards since that was the Minnesota Twins’ first World Series year.

A week or so later, I came home to find both seasons on our dining room table. The APBA member, knowing of my financial pitfalls of the past couple of years due to being laid off and medical, etc., sent me the sets. There was Henry Aaron and Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle and Lou Gehrig on the table! I was stunned at the kindness.

Since I’ve joined the community, mostly chatting with members on the APBA Facebook page and emailing them after they’ve read this blog and sending me notes, I’ve received the 1961 season set of cards, a collection of some cards from 1962 and 1963, a football game, books, a framed display of the Twins’ logos and – the most stunning of all – a laptop computer on which I’m writing this now. A person who read of my ineptness with computers and how a laptop I bought in Northbrook, Ill., in 2016 was a junker sent me a refurbished one he had. The same fellow read a goofy blog I recently wrote about being particular to certain types pens for doing replays. He sent me a box of blue, black and red pens and highlighters. I’ll never have to sneak any pens from churches, banks or hospital information desks again.

This is not to say the closeness I receive from this group is only because I get things. It works both ways. I’ve sent books to other members and the 1981 card set to a fellow APBA player in Michigan. He was having a hard time with making ends meet, but his attitude toward his job and his devotion to his wife was one of the most inspirational things I’ve seen. I was glad to help in some small way. I’ve also told Holly that when I pass away, she should send all my APBA cards and games to our APBA minister friend in Michigan. I trust him with my more prized possessions to dispense them to other members who would like them.

Most of us have never met in person, but that doesn’t matter. When one APBA member announced his mother passed away a few years ago, the outpouring of prayers and condolences from the group was massive.We also wish each other happy birthdays and root on our replays. When someone has a no-hitter and writes about it on Facebook, the congratulations are akin to those given to new fathers.

I did get to meet a handful of APBA guys in 2015 when, during my constant driving to Chicagoland to see Holly, I went to a tournament held in a nearby town. I had never seen any of them in person before, but felt like I knew them.

I doubt the Left-Handed Morticians develop that quick of a bond. 

Is it like demographics? I was a geeky, nerdy kid growing up who mostly preferred the company of my cards and replays over hanging out with other kids. I was very inept at sports, but I loved keeping up with teams, standings and stats. The APBA world I created by doing replays filled that need.

So, are there similar characteristics of an APBA player? I’m not so sure. I’ve met outgoing players and more loner types, those who excel in sports and klutzes like myself, rich ones and poor ones, old and young.

I’m not sure what the bonding drive is for ABPA. Maybe it’s just the unsaid knowledge we have about the game and what it means to us. It’s like policemen who share the bonding of chaos and seeing crime all the time. They don’t talk about it, but they all know of it.

Whatever it is, I offer that the APBA group is an amazing eclectic group. We may have diverse backgrounds, but we share a common bond over the dice and cards and computer games that draw us close.