Steph Curry and I have something in common. For those of you who know who I am but have no clue as to the identity of Steph Curry, let me bring you up to speed.
Curry is a basketball player, a relatively short one, around 6 foot 3 inches, I think, which seems tall to me, but in the world of professional basketball he’s a sapling in a forest of redwoods. I’m 5 feet 10 inches, so that’s not our commonality. I once played basketball—point guard for my high school team, back when basketball shorts did not fall below the knees. Also, that’s not what we have in common. Curry is actually good; I was mediocre on my very best day. Curry hits baskets from all over the court—seemingly impossible shots. I could make a layup occasionally if no defender was particularly close.
Steph Curry will be in the hall of fame. I occasionally got banished to the hall outside the gym for double dribbling.
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So, now you know Steph Curry—not as well as you know me, but well enough for comparison’s sake.
Here’s our common bond. We each have a bad knee. Curry hurt his on the job, sprained it during the NBA playoffs, for which he makes about a gazillion dollars an hour for hitting shots from all over the court. He’s out for several weeks, leaving his teammates to do the best they can to move on to the next level, where he might be able to rejoin them and make more amazing shots. The timing could not have been worse.
I hurt my knee walking from a table to the condiment shelf in a fast-food restaurant. Just stepped and felt a searing pain on the inside of my left knee—been hobbling ever since. By the way, I am not paid gazillions of dollars to eat at fast-food restaurants.
Did I mention that we are moving into a new place this week? The timing could not have been worse.
Pat, bless her heart, has had to bear the burden of packing boxes, including the gazillion volumes of books I have collected over the years. She’s also had to bear the burden of keeping me off my feet—bringing me pills, beverages, ice packs, my computer, the remote control, and other essential items. She has not complained.
I hope Steph Curry is receiving half as much attention. I assume he’s seen a good doctor. I saw one yesterday. He tried to turn my leg into a pretzel, just to see where the pain was coming from. He found it.
I spent 15 pleasant minutes in an MRI tube earlier today and will see the doctor again on Friday, at which time he will probably suggest a surgical repair, followed by rehab, aka, legalized torture. I expect to stay current with my responsibilities keeping up with Southwest agriculture while recovering. Steph, unfortunately, will have to take several weeks off.