Warning - The following message will contain information that is not strictly pedagogical.
When I started this blog a month ago, I gave myself permission to write about whatever was on my mind. In grad school, we investigated student's multiple worlds by turning the lens on our own multiple worlds. I am more than a teacher, yet I teach everywhere I go, and in all that I do. Teaching isn't just a profession, it's part of who I am-- even when I'm bowling.
You read it correctly, and I'm not just a league bowler; I have been a member of the Professional Bowler's Association since 2000 and I have competed in regional events since 1996. On April Fool's Day 2011, I had an unfriendly reminder of my vulnerability, age, and mortality.
It had already been a bad beginning to the new year when I contracted a flesh infection that caused me to lose nearly three weeks of school. The treatment was nearly worse than the ailment. I missed days of work due to my body's poor reaction to the medicine I was told to ingest. Then I recovered, and things seemed to be going well.
A month later, my team and I flew out to Reno, NV for the USBC National Open Tournament and I performed well enough to earn a modest paycheck for my efforts out there. I flew back on Thursday, March 31 and was back to work the following day. I had been coaching the high school junior varsity softball team for 3 years and was just beginning my fourth year. I learned that the two games I missed that week had been dreadful performances. The players lost their games on unforced errors with fielding.
It was raining that Friday. We had indoor practice and the solution seemed fairly clear to all the coaches. We would practice fielding. Triple plays, double plays, passing-- all the things that went wrong that week. All the players were on the "field," a rubber-surfaced gym floor with corrugated grooves that reminded me of a giant basketball cover. All the coaches were going to be runners.
That's when it happened. I used to be a pretty fast runner. Not as fast as my elder brothers and definitely not as fast as my cousin, Ryan Bailey, who just won a silver medal at the olympics this summer in London, but still faster than most. I set out to take advantage of my long strides and speed. I wanted to see if I could rattle my players with worry that I would make it to base before they managed to pass the ball. First base, no problem. Stealing from first to second, I applied my brakes so that I could round the base. Then I felt my knee cork-screw counter-clockwise as my heel transferred power to my other leg.
There was no snap and no extreme pain-- just the sudden feeling that something came loose inside my knee, it felt very unstable and wobbly to the point I called time and hobbled off the diamond. I had no idea how serious the injury was. I knew I had tweaked my knee, and I had enough sense to ask a player to run and get me ice for my knee. I sat out the rest of practice nursing my knee and watching my players.
Three weeks later, I was entering OSS for surgery. In that instant, I tore the left and right meniscus and shredded my ACL. Going into surgery I had hope that the surgeon would only have to repair the meniscus and that the ACL would still be viable. A meniscus surgery has a three month recovery time, ACL-- 12 months. The injury was to my left knee, my sliding knee in bowling--- one of the worst possible injuries for a bowler.
When I woke up in the recovery room, my surgeon was there to bear me the news. He had to take the ACL. He replaced it with a cadaver ACL. My heart sank. I don't really like summer vacation. It's too long and I start missing my job within a couple weeks, but at least I have the time and the funds to practice and compete in pro tournaments. Twelve months? No tournaments? No bowling? Nightmare.
After six months of physical therapy three nights a week, I was released. I had to ice and stretch my knee nightly for twelve months. Nearly a year and a half later, I am finally getting my mojo back on the lanes. Last night on a sport pattern at Leisure Lanes in Lancaster, PA, I shot a 3 game set of 675. I won two out of three matches 258-198, 212-232, and 177-245. This was the third consecutive week I felt like me, and the first week where I had complete confidence in my physical game.
Slow delivery, free backswing, even tempo-- I forgot what this felt like. The muscle memory had faded and only my brain remembered that I used to make strikes look easy. I had never had a serious injury before that. I had broken my big toe but that was minor--- all the doctor did was bandage my bum toe to the good one. I had never been incapacitated to the point where I wondered if I would fully recover.
The brutal experience gave me empathy for my student athletes on crutches and those who underwent surgery. I wore crutches for three weeks. I'm a high energy teacher. It was no fun being hindered by my own body from working the room. I had to slow down because I could not be fast. I couldn't drive my car for two weeks after surgery because my knee would not bend enough to work the pedals. I was in hell.
Last night, bowling with finesse, precision, and power felt awesome. Remembering that feeling has me thinking about my students who face similar uncertainties when they are informed that they need surgery, are going to need extended rehab, and should be able to play next season. I have been a bowler since I was 7 and joined my first league. The prospect of never bowling again or never achieving at the level I was performing before my injury was devastating, but being a bowler is not my full identity. I have my writing, my music, my family, and my teaching that still help define me. Middle schoolers are very sensitive to a sense of drama; how must they feel when it happens to them, when they may not know that they have other things going for them that matter just as much or even more?
Last night also made me think about the enduring messages we give children as teachers, parrents, coaches, mentors, and other role models. I watched a league mate self-destruct with negative self-talk, calling himself an idiot or stupid for poor executions or failure to make appropriate adjustments at the right moments. They were so focused upon their failures that they could not look upon what these failures were telling them. Who told them they were dumb, idiots, or less than. Problem-solvers may become frustrated with negative results but they are also inspired by failures. Instead of self-doubtm they ask themselves "What went wrong?" and "How do I fix it?" The answers to those questions lead to greatness.
I am thankful I listened to my father about how failures in engineering led him to 5 patents in design. I try and I hope I am succeeding in carrying that message forward to my students. Sometimes disappointments lead to greater things.
