By Paul (Gimpy) Levine
I am in pain, so if this is more incoherent than usual, cut me some slack. If you stick with this post to the end, I promise to pass along a key lesson of life.
Many years ago, I was a regular weekend volleyball player on the beach in Key Biscayne, Florida. That's where I tore up my right knee the first time. But not the last time.
I loved to play. Sometimes, crowds would gather and watch in astonishment at the fiercely competitive games.
I ripped cartilage a second time playing tennis with my son, Mike.
NOT ME PLAYING TENNIS
I had surgery; years went by; other injuries dogged that damned right knee. Finally, thirteen months ago, I was the recipient of a brand new mechanical knee. That knee works just fine. But Sunday, in a futile effort to re-live my lost youth, I did something stupid. Usually, Sunday mornings are reserved for buying fresh fruit at the Studio City Farmer's Market.
Then, perhaps a healthy snack at Porto's, a Cuban bakery in Burbank. But last Sunday, I played pick-up volleyball on the beach in Santa Monica.
NOT ME PLAYING VOLLEYBALL
DEFINITELY NOT ME PLAYING VOLLEYBALL
This time, I tore up my left knee, requiring a trip to the E.R.
NOT MY NURSE
You may ask what I have learned from this episode. Simply this. You may take Vicodin...
Or you may drink vodka...
But you may not do both.