Back in the day, I worked for a CBS television affiliate in Tennessee. Prior to my gainful employment, I had interned at the station during the last semester of my senior year in college. The internship deal that was struck was a bit unusual. I slaved away for roughly thirty hours per week and in return, I received one credit toward graduation. One credit. One measly credit. Not that I’m bitter or anything. No siree, Billy Bob. However, I can still recall my first “official” task as the WDEF intern—I ran across Broad Street and fetched the news director a cherry pie. Yep, that’s me—a regular old Walter “Burger King” Cronkite.
What does this have to do with softball, exactly? Keep yer baseball spikes on, I’m getting there.
Upon graduating, a couple of changes took place in my life: I married the most beautiful woman in the world, and I found three part-time jobs at the TV station. Earning money was good, even though the work did not provide me with medical insurance. However, it did entitle me to become a member of the TV 12 No-Star softball team.
And it was this love of softball that sent me to the emergency room.
My memory is a little bit cloudy concerning the day in question. It could be due to the stress and pain suffered that horrible, rotten, no good, very bad day.
My wife and I had only been married three months. She was working at Sears while preparing to student teach the coming fall. The plan for me that summer day was to pick up the newly minted Mrs. at the end of her work shift at 9:00 pm and take her bowling.
However, as a member of the TV 12 No Stars, I kept my softball glove at the ready. Yes, it was in the car with me at all times.
“You aren’t going to play softball today, and possibly leave me hung up at work for a ride at the end of my shift, are you?” asked my wife.
“No” I replied. And I really wasn’t planning on playing. It was stupid for me to have the glove with me. When a co-worker told me we were short players and could I fill in for a few innings, I decided to play. I was thinking “Hey, I could play and still show up to Sears on time and pick Celeste up at work on time.”
The ball field we were using was absolutely horrible. The infield looked like someone had dragged it using a John Deere 70-20 during a monsoon. Ruts were everywhere, even in the batter’s box.
The TV-12 No Stars found themselves behind, and the three-up and three-downs were starting to accumulate. We had the tying run on third, one out, and I was up to bat. Being left-handed meant the opposing team would expect me to hammer one to right field. But I liked hitting the opposite way to left, and that was my goal. A hit or a sacrifice fly would even up the score.
As the slo pitch floated toward home; I turned to my left and swung as hard as I could.
“Wham!”
The ball flew off my bat and deep toward the left fielder.
But there was a problem. When I turned and shifted weight to my left leg, my left foot hung up in a huge gopher-sized hole near the plate. My left knee pointed toward the pitcher’s mound while the rest of me turned toward third. This No-Star was going two different directions at once.
“Pop!”
I heard the noise when my knee dislocated, and then I immediately hit the ground straddling home plate. The softball was deep enough for the runner to tag up and then race home while narrowly avoiding stepping on me.
“Safe!”
“Hey, Kraig. Get up,” said the on-deck teleprompter operator.
“I can’t,” replied the TV 12 No-Star with the broken kickstand. “I think I dislocated my kneecap.”
Oh. Gosh. I couldn’t stand up. How in the world was I going to bowl if I couldn’t even stand up? Lean against the gutter return and whip it good?
I talked to our coach and told him how I was supposed to pick up my wife at work. He was busy talking to someone about having to call an ambulance. This was way before cell phones, so someone had to run across the street and make the calls.
Before long, an ambulance made its merry way to the field, scooped me up, and bounced and bounced and bounced across the diamond. In the back, tears were streaming down the cheeks of the No-Star.
“You okay, buddy?” asked the paramedic.
“No” came the answer from the newlywed with a lot of explaining to do.
Celeste was picked up at work by someone she didn’t know and driven to Erlanger Hospital in Chattanooga, TN.
I was quickly wheeled into the emergency room and then into a side room. Soon a doctor appeared and asked me a ridiculous question:
“So, how are we today?”
Really? Really “We?” “I’m great Doctor. Just thought I’d pop my kneecap out of place, and totally mess up picking up my new bride and taking her bowling” I thought. Good gravy.
He wasn’t done. “I’m going to twist your knee a little and see if we can get it back in place without much trouble” informed the ER quack.
Twist.
“Ahhhhhhh!” screamed the newlywed who was feeling nearly dead.
“Oh, it’s still tender. I will give you some morphine and see if that works” said the physician.
I was given a shot of the most wonderful concoction ever known to man. After that dose, I couldn’t care less if he twisted me into a pretzel.
One or two twists and my kneecap returned to its normal position, although severely swollen.
Now all I had to do was go talk to my new wife. The bad news was that I had no paid time off and no medical insurance. The good news was that I was going to be able to spend some extra time with her.
