NOTE: I don’t recommend viewing the picture below if you’re squeamish. It’s not bloody or anything, but it does contain a wrist at a rather unconventional angle.

I mentioned in my earlier entry that I’d come out of footballing retirement again, so what better follow-up than one explaining why I originally stopped playing?

I’d been playing 5-a-side for a good while with a fairly regular bunch of guys, collectively known as Sporting Lesbian – clever, I know. We were a mixed bunch; there were definitely some really good players, but I suspect I was one of the weaker ones. I like to think I was a useful player though.

Anyway, one week – and amazingly, I can’t remember even roughly when it happened – we were playing a team we’d played before, this being a league and all, so I knew of the players. They were a decent bunch, but for some rather inexplicable reason, one of them was an absolute arse; the sort of player that will happily stand on you when you’re on the ground, but will threaten you with violence for tackling him cleanly – scum, basically.

The match had been pretty uneventful, at least in my memory, but we had a shot that rebounded fairly heavily and dropped out wide to the aforementioned twat. Being stubborn and a bit feisty on the football pitch, I wasn’t have any of that; I made a quick dash towards him to keep him out wide and, seeing him ready to take a shot, threw a leg out to stop the shot, leaving the ground.

I genuinely remember feeling like something was going to go wrong almost immediately, though I have no idea why. I was in mid-air and facing the wrong way, so I couldn’t tell you exactly what happened next, but I can guess: my athletic and graceful leap to save the team blocked the shot by landing on top of the ball and pivoting the top part of my body into the ground, right where my right arm happened to be.

At this point, my arm looked like this: BROKEN, MANGLED BONES.

As you’d expect, my first thoughts were something along the lines of, “Ok. Where’s my bag? I’ll need my ball as well.” I vaguely recall someone telling me to go inside and stop trying to find my bag, before a wave of nausea came over me and I decided that I ought to go inside.

The ambulance would have taken a while, so a kind gentleman drove me to the hospital – I took the above picture on the way, much to his surprise – and after having a tourniquet placed on my arm and two doctors tugged and pulled my wrist back into place, I was told to come back a while later to check on it. I was told at this checkup that I’d need a metal plate in my wrist to make sure it didn’t heal badly and affect me later in life, and it’s still there now. It still really fucking hurts if any pressure is put on it too, so don’t do that if you ever meet me.

It wasn’t all bad though. In the time I had off work I won enough at poker to pay off my rather chunky overdraft and bought an Xbox. I also moved into my girlfriend’s parents house with her, which meant we could save enough money to buy the house we live in now. It all worked out rather nicely actually, I might try doing the other one on Wednesday.

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