We finally got in to see the doctor and I was asked to do my customary underpants only performance. I’d looked up scoliosis and didn’t like what I’d read so I sort of forgot to mention it to my parents, hoping that it would go away.
It hadn’t gone away, it was the first thing that the doctor looked at. Unfortunately when he ran his finger down my spine I started squirming, it’s exactly what a certain teenager had done to me once when I was ten and it had proved to be one of my major ‘hot buttons’. My reaction just got me a stern rebuke for fidgeting but nothing sinister was implied.
After the spine it was onto the knees and a new torture. I was told to squat and then stand up without assistance or support which produced the most awful noise like a pistol shot, this didn’t bode well.
Allowed to get dressed again I sat between my parents and asked the all important question. “Can I start playing rugby again in September?” The doctor re-read the consultant’s letter, looked at me for a long time in silence and then spoke.
“Sorry, Malcolm but you can’t.”
“Well, when can I start then?”
“Your consultant doesn’t want you playing any more and I agree.”
It seemed that I was the only person in the room labouring under the delusion that I’d be able to play again. Neither of my parents looked in the least surprised and the look on Mum’s face could only be described as relief. I got the distinct impression that the three adults in the room had already discussed the situation behind my back.
It transpired that I was showing early signs of arthritis in both knees and the fear was that one bad tackle, a fairly common occurrence , could do serious damage. The spinal problem just added to the overall concern and the feeling was that the risks were too high. I could play any other sport of my choice but rugby was out for good.
The problem that nobody seemed to understand was that my school didn’t have any other winter sports. Boys played rugby from September to March and that was it apart from the weekly gym lesson which I could carry on doing. I begged, promised to be extra careful and to be honest about pain but all to no avail.
I was almost in tears when we left the surgery and complained loudly all the way home that it wasn’t fair and that I didn’t deserve it. All that did was make my parents cross and by the time we got to Lurgashall I was getting perilously close to a physical punishment so I finally shut up and just sulked for the whole evening.
I really wasn’t looking forward to breaking this news to the Games Master and I was pretty certain that the word “spas” was going to figure quite extensively in my remaining time at Midhurst, three whole years of misery lay ahead of me.
Love
