The biggest shock of the scrum disaster was when I got home and reported the injury, as instructed by the school nurse. All set for a long whining session to try and convince my parents that it was a real problem and not me being a sissy, I was completely dumbfounded when they immediately agreed that I should see our family doctor the next evening, as soon as dad got home from work and could drive us there.
I had a very bad night as the pain was getting steadily worse, conventional solutions such as aspirin were having no effect, and by the time Mum came to call me my left knee was approximately twice the size of the right one; there was clearly something amiss.
The advantage of having a Dad in the ambulance service became clear when an elastic bandage was produced and applied. The disadvantage was that my knee was now in a permanently bent position which gave my gait a distinctly Quasimodo appearance.
The truly weird thing was that when I got to school I found that my stock had actually risen quite distinctly. Everybody knew I’d been hurt the day before but now I was visibly injured and had a bandage to prove it. Such was the strange ethic of schoolboy rugby in my day.
The visit to the doctor was not a great deal of fun made more miserable by being reduced to just my underpants while both parents and the doctor watched me walk around. The actual examination was even worse as the doctor was wrenching my knee around; I was even forgiven a yelped “shit” at one point.
The good news, apparently, was that the doctor didn’t think it was a torn cartilage but, that word just had to be in there somewhere, there was something “not quite right” about the joint. As a precaution there’d be no rugby for me for 4 weeks and then he’d have another look.
I could do limited gym, provided it was low impact and I was to wear a bandage at all times except for having a bath or shower and when exercising. Apart from a prescription for some fairly mild pain killers, only to be taken at bedtime, that was it. Surely this was the end of my school rugby career?
Next morning at break I limped to the staff room and asked to speak to Killer (by his real name of course) and handed him a letter that Mum had written. He read it, then read it again and then asked me why I hadn’t said anything at the time of the accident.
My trademark temper almost got the better of me but I bit down a retort of “Because I bloody well didn’t know, Sir and nobody seemed that concerned” and settled for “It didn’t really start hurting until after I got home, Sir”.
As if he’d read my thoughts Killer assured me that this didn’t mean the end of being on the under 15 squad, as he cheerfully said “there’s always next term” and then he promised to show me some leg strengthening exercise that I could do in gym.
Those exercises turned out to be the archetypal exercise for knee injuries, form stepping which is possibly the most boring exercise known to man. While everyone else ran about jumping over vaulting horses and stuff like that I did my soul destroying work out in a corner after which I had to struggle with getting the bandage right following a shower.
Rugby afternoons were spent shivering on the touchline with the sole comfort that I didn’t have to get changed and could huddle inside my duffel coat with the hood up. After the first week I actually wanted to be playing again and was quite eager for the month to be up.
Love
“Why didn’t you say something at the time, boy?”
as though it was your fault you got hurt! Oh I remember that tactic very well!
But having several relatives who have been teachers I suppose I do understand that it was probably meant as some sort of responsibility kick – ‘Killer’ would have been responsible for what happened on that rugby pitch and if any boy got hurt then the question might always be asked – ‘why? and what were YOU (the responsible adult) doing at the time?’
None of that side of it seemed the least bit apparent to us then though, did it?
Micky
That really is the whole philosophy isn’t it? Plausible deniability and shifting the blame towards a defenceless child. As you say, though, at that age and in those times none of us would have dared ask questions.
I know that my older sister has to do risk assessments for just about every activity she does with her sixth formers.
If the continuing saga happened today my parents would probably have grounds for a big legal case against the school. Heigh Ho!
Love
Malcolm
Sorry to hear about your injury.
I am currently nursing broken ribs, so I feel your literal and methaphorical pain.
Ian
Ouch! I’ve broken ribs in the past so I can sympathise. The worst thing is that there’s nothing anyone can do, you just have to suffer until it gets better
Love
Mac
I wait to see what the injury turns out to be? I don’t think we have heard the last from your knee. I also wonder if the damage done, and the lack of treatment at the time makes it bother you still today? On the other side of the coin, you are one tough person to have the chance to be out of the game with honor yet still wished to be back in the fray. You seem never to like to give up or at least not easily when you were young.
Hugs and some ice for the swellings on your knee.
Scottie
Scottie
The sga continues and eventually I’ll reach the reveleation.
My famous bloody mindedness was what made me want to play again, tell me that I couldn’t do something and I’d move heaven and earth to prove you wrong.
Love
Mac