Back ailments are the leading cause of injuries for golfers.
To put it coarsely, this aging thing (inhales).
One minute, you lash your drive down the center cut of the fairway and you and your ego are strutting like a peacock, the next minute you’re doubled over, waiting for a pain spasm to subside.
If this were match play, it would have been a blowout. The golf gods conspired with the Lord to keep me humble. They won on a disqualification. That’s what I learned after two days of shooting pain, soreness and lethargy from injuring my back.
I prided myself on being in good shape for a 65-year-old. I walked 18 holes and carried my bag on a Monday, reffed my high school lacrosse playoff game on Tuesday night, and decided to walk another 18 on a Wednesday morning. My pre-dawn routine seemed just that – routine. Rise at 5 a.m., meet my golf pal Larry at 5:30 for another fight-to-the death match for the princely sum of $1, log 6 1/2 miles on my exercise watch, and steal a little extra practice for that evening’s golf league.
That plan collapsed faster than you can say every golfer’s nightmare phrase – four-putt. While I was slipping my golf bag off my shoulder for my second shot of the morning, I winced and buckled. It felt like a knife to the lower back. I walked around and stretched, figuring it must be a muscle spasm, but the throbbing never went away. It continued through a double-bogey and two bogeys until I had looped back near the parking lot. After the third hole, I did the smart thing. I walked from my addiction.
Smart and Jim are rarely used in the same sentence. Let’s call this injury a lesson in humble awareness. Even though I think I have a large “S’’ on my chest, I must admit I am as mortal as the next guy. I hadn’t had this kind of humility training since I mouthed off on the baseball bus 50 years ago and Coach Fran Holleran announced, for everyone to hear, “Hey, Mr. Big Mouth. You didn’t knock down any fences this spring.’’
I had joined the surprisingly-high 40 percent of golfers each year who injure themselves, and backs edged out elbows as the most common.
This back pain can make you seem feeble. It sentenced me to two naps and a berth on the living room couch. By the time I had the presence to call, my doctor was gone for the day and the office closed. The doctor on call couldn’t examine me and wouldn’t prescribe any medications without an exam, but suggested an urgent care visit, rest, heating pad and acetaminophen. Call your doctor in the morning, he said.
I couldn’t toss and turn through a sleepless night because it was too painful to roll over. Around 2 a.m., I headed for the family computer and requested a morning appointment through the patient portal. The only available doctor was an itinerant. I was so sore I would have settled for Dr. Kevorkian.
But more humility training lie ahead. When I hobbled through a 7-Eleven, people stared like I must be 95 with one foot on a banana peel. I listed forward and to the right, and shuffled like Frankenstein in sneakers, although he was probably faster. I had to use the handicapped cutout in the curb and held up traffic while I shuffled through the crosswalk. You could have timed me with a sundial.
Once I reached the doctor’s waiting room, the AP course in humility training began. When the nurse summoned me, she seemed to hold the door for an eternity, but never lost her smile.
In the exam room, the doctor asked about my fitness regimen and manipulated my legs and back, noting which movements made me wince.
“Son of a labor nurse,’’ I announced. “No whining allowed. And, of course, never show up at the ER or a doctor’s office in dirty underwear.’’
She chuckled and continued the exam.
“I can feel that the muscle is really hard and still spasming,’’ she said, suggesting I alternate icing with the heating pad.
This is when I got too cocky. I explained I had looked up the muscle group. It was the psoas (so-as) that was giving me trouble.
Once flat on the examining table, I couldn’t sit up. It was simply too painful. She offered her hand, but I grabbed the bracket that holds the blood-pressure cuff and slowly hoisted myself up, wincing and moaning.
“I did that by myself,’’ I said, “because I thought I needed to demonstrate how painful this is, and where the pain is coming from.’’
I should have quit there, but I reached back to an old saying from my sexist, college rugby buddies at Buffalo State and blurted, “I’m trying not be a Suzy.’’
I wondered why she paused and looked confused, then I spotted the embroidery on her white coat.
“Dr. Susan J. Wegman.’’
Oops. That was awkward. Had I irritated this professional?
“I met no disrespect with the Suzy reference. I was just hauling out an old rugby phrase about being tough and playing through pain.’’
She laughed. “You didn’t offend me with the Suzy remark.’’
The muscle relaxants cost a whopping $1.18. They had no relaxants for my brain. The humility training was free.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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