As you may have suspected since stumbling upon this web magazine, its editors and contributors suffer mightily for their “art”, if you are so charitable as to allow me to use that word in describing the verbal atrocities committed here every day in the name of dick jokes and SOSHULISM.
As Magic Sam mentioned earlier this week, your correspondent had an unfortunate mishap
with an anatomically incorrect sex toy on the soccer field and broke his scapula, temporarily rendering him a vicodin-soaked wretch unable to formulate or type coherent sentences.
“But The Bunk, how is that any different than normal?”, I can hear you saying to yourself with a smug affectation not befitting someone of your caste…
You clever fucks. This is the risk we take in delivering a daily online course of Advanced Snark Methods for Cynics: that our sass may be turned upon us at a vulnerable moment. Like when I am in a sling, hunched over my dilapidated laptop computer attempting to keep hope alive despite the irrepressible truth that I am becoming too old and too weak to play the sport at which I once excelled.
Is this some karmic reaction, a balancing of the books after two decades of laying people out on the pitch? POSSIBLY. Was the perpetrator a small Asian man? FUCK and NO buddy, although he did have the same first name as me. In my lack of match fitness I simply made a series of positional and tactical errors that left me vulnerable to getting sideswiped, however accidentally, by an opponent who was smaller, slower, and less talented than yours truly.
Flying through the air involuntarily is a discomforting thing, but years of skiing and soccer have taught me how to take a fall. Or so I thought until Sunday.
This time around, I wasn’t quite able to contort myself to properly absorb the impact of my fall, and the result was a hard landing and the feeling of something snapping that probably should not snap. As Islam is the one true faith and God hates us all, the referee blew for a foul… committed by me. Just like when Bruce Lee punched me in the face, injury is best served with insult.
Because of stereotypical English grit and stiff upper lip, etc., I soldiered on for another three minutes or so until it was obvious that I was broken and would not be playing again for a long time.
Whenever I need a little inspiration to recover from a fitness setback, I watch the video compilation below.
Some background: Zinedine Zidane was a true artist; with the strength of a bull and the grace of a ballerina, this French Algerian was the most gifted footballer of his generation. So mesmerizing was Zidane at the peak of his powers that an award-winning film was made of several cameras following him around the pitch during a 2005 match against Villareal, set to the very groovy music of Mogwai.
At 34 years old, which for an attacking midfielder might as well be 100, Monsieur Zidane was written off as a spent force at the 2006 World Cup in Germany. Howevah, he found another gear and dispatched Spain, Brazil, and Portugal on the way to a, uhhh… memorable final match against the Eye-talians.
If Zidane can do it so can I, or something. Except not really, at all.
Since having abdominal surgery for an unrelated soccer injury in 2010, I have told myself that I’ll call time on my soccer career the next time I sustain an injury that requires surgery. Most scapular fractures don’t, but it has yet to be ascertained whether I tore muscles in addition to the fracture, which probably would necessitate surgery and a long, painful rehabilitation.
Will I ever play again, or is it time to give back to the game and become an intimidating, eccentric referee? Pending the results of magnetic resonance imaging, I am confident that this fine readership will wait with bated breath.