Coming Back from Injury

I don’t often get sick (as in “miss-a-day-of-work” sick, not “shotgunned- three- jack- &- cokes- at- the- tail- end- of- the- night- and- then- deposited- my- stomach- into- a- diner- toilet” sick; the latter happens slightly more frequently). But when I do come down with a cold or the flu, it seems to linger on, in some capacity, for an extended period of time. For example: I’m still getting over my most recent affliction, a full two weeks after originally falling ill. The fever, sneezing, congestion, and most of the coughing are gone. The fatigue, however, is still plaguing me. Unfortunately, this past weekend made that painfully evident to me.

Friday started as I had planned. Tony and I got to our friend’s grandfather’s bar at about 7 to watch her Wheel of Fortune debut. We started drinking beers, but I decided to pace myself, since we were supposed to leave around an hour later to catch up with Haze downtown, and I was the driver. After he started drinking, though, Tony decided that he wanted to go to McKeesport instead. I knew I wasn’t up for that; my immune system had just been through a hellacious battle, and the comedy that typically results from a night of hanging in The Port just wasn’t worth the risk of catching mullet-itus. I chose to stick with the script and meet up with Haze.

But I was caught off-guard by a sudden realization: As I stood there sober, I didn’t have the normal aching desire to pound away more beer; instead, all I felt was…tired. It was all of 8:30 p.m., and I was beginning to feel worn out. Apparently, after sitting out a few contests during the past couple of weeks, I now wasn’t quite up to game-speed. It’s hard for an athlete to accept it when his body isn’t capable of performing at the level to which he is accustomed. My friends were looking at me in bewilderment, like they were watching Kobe Bryant go 1-12 from the field during a first half: something just wasn’t quite right. I skipped out on heading downtown, and found myself in bed at about 12:30. I even managed to sleep through a 1:57 a.m. text message from TJ (luckily for him) about stripper cousins.

The next night was a little better, but I still wasn’t quite 100%. I went out on the town with my friend Shannon and a group of her friends from high school. But nothing very eventful happened. Does that even sound right? Me…out partying with a big group of people, most of who are female…and nothing remarkable takes place. Cue the Rod Serling voiceover.

I got drunk—a little too easily—and mingled, but no interesting stories took place. It was strangely boring. I’m sure that this was mostly on my part, though, as the others seemed to be having a great time. But I didn’t feel that normal spark that usually fuels my (mis)steps towards adventure and/or hilarity when drinking. We went back to Shannon's apartment after the bar, and I made it to about 2:30 before succumbing to my condition. I left the chit-chatting crowd upstairs to go into the basement and fall asleep under a blanket on the floor. I was awakened by some of her friends at 5:30, when they finally decided to go to bed and found a strange mass in one corner of the room. They thought that I had gone home, and I was jarred out of my slumber by the covers being ripped from over my face and three girls cackling. For a split second I thought I might be in “Macbeth.”

So, in essence, my weekend was unblogworthy (despite the fact that I am now blogging about it). Fear not, though, dear reader: I am showing signs of recovery, and the coming weeks look promising (a trip to Moutaineer Casino, a possible trip to visit a friend out of town, and St. Patty’s Day weekend—god help us all). I’m still an All-Star of this boozing game, and I’ll be playing at an All-Star’s level again soon enough.