VirtuaLife

I must admit that sports medicine is scary. It requires a certain level of…. spontaneity to one’s actions that I seem to fundamentally lack. It requires you to be loving and yet tough as nails (otherwise the players will chew you up, being the big hunks of muscle that they are), gentle yet firm, and authoritative yet open to suggestion. Not to mention being a team player, when you are perhaps the only person on field who can’t dribble a ball (or shoot hoops) properly. Talk about starting with a disadvantage.

Because the sports medic is a team player, I am principally against the idea of casual sports trainers for weekly sporting events – it’s very difficult to ‘own’ your team when that changes every time the whistle blows. So I tend to reject most requests for help - not good for my finances, unfortunately.

Back to my context. So I’m attending to my team – let’s call them the EebeeGeeBees (EBGBs)- for the first time (the other times were trial runs with someone to assist me). In my head I was wondering whether I could keep it up. Sports medicine is hard – you gotta be prepared to travel long distances, be ignored (a sure killer for me) and have swearwords thrown around you like some kind of expletive festival. You need to steel yourself against childish anger, petty commentary and the palpable sensation of defeat, which can linger around long after the carnage has ended.

I honestly didn’t know if I could make it. Me, with my big mouth and bigger ego, but with a seemingly shrinking supply of clinically useful skills in a physiotherapy context; I didn’t know whether I could cut it in this job.

And I didn’t know whether I had the team’s acceptance, and whether my services were provided to a satisfactory standard. That’s another thing. There's hardly ever any feedback, in this area.

But something happened tonight as I watched the game played out. I watched the boys burn scars into the field with their relentless sprinting and attacking runs, felt their grief as they missed tackles, squandered opportunities, or were outclassed (or just outbeefed) by their opposition. I forgot about how much I hated their swearing, or lewd language. I forgot about their ‘crowd’ mentalities, and began to see them – each and every one – as precious individuals struggling to achieve excellence. And I commited myself, right there and then, to pursue excellence in my services – strapping, first aid, and massage – such that I would not let them down.

When the match ended there was a little lump in my throat. No, it wasn’t a cough lozenge. It was a ball of tightness that resonated with the hearts of my EBGBs (they lost the match).

I’ve talked in my blog before about passion. I’d like to extend that concept, now. Passion cannot happen without ownership – it’s like discipline; a commitment without that extra ‘ooomph!’ of heartfelt emotion. Discipline is not a bad thing. But it pales in comparison against passion as an inspirational force.

I came back tonight, aching, sore after 7 hours on the field, over 2 hours in the car, and 3 hours spent car-hunting with Sharon. But was elated that I'd reaffirmed something to myself - in God (I've been praying so much the last few day I seem to randomly spit 'amen's out), nothing is impossible. Like taking the ego out of Theo. Or putting the commitment back in.

And the most beautiful thing? At the end of this game, one of the guys came up to me and said, “Hey Theo! Thanks mate, you did an awesome job.”

Thank you, God, for remembering me. And thank you for each and every wonderful person that you have placed in my life.

In Faith, Hope and Love!