I love kickball. Unfortunately, I’ve been struck down in my prime.

One moment I’m in the outfield — my arms outstretched and fingertips almost on the big, red rubber ball — The next moment, my foot slips out from under me.

I hear a * pop * and suddenly, I have no hamstring.

I fall to my knees, confused and afraid. I don’t feel any pain, just emptiness where my leg should be.

As the other team cheers home three runners, my brain orders the leg to stand. The leg is silent. I fall again.

Then I hear voices — voices all around me, voices in my head.

“Are you okay?” No leg.

“What happened?” No bike.

“Is it your hamstring?” No yoga.

“Can you walk?” No garden.

“Sweetheart, I’m here,” I recognize Brian’s voice. Angry and embarrassed at my bad luck, I put my head on his chest and start to cry.

No summer.

At least ten people try to carry me off the field and calm me down. The opposing team offers me ice. Talk about sportsmanship.

After driving to two CLOSED urgent care centers (It was 8:15 p.m. and both facilities closed at 8:00 p.m.), we finally arrive at West Health Urgent Care.

I want to be brave (eh hem… stubborn) and hobble to admissions all by myself. Instead, I am treated to a doublewide wheelchair and a TV tuned to “History Detectives” while I wait to see a doctor.

Was that rusty old gun really one of Hitler’s antique revolvers? I will never know. A nurse dressed in Strawberry Shortcake scrubs wheels me away before the dramatic conclusion.

“So, how’d you hurt your leg, honey?” she asks in a soft southern drawl.

“Kickball.”

“Kickball? Why, isn’t that a kids game?”

I smile weakly. The shock has worn off and my leg is throbbing.

An hour later, I am wrapped in an ace bandage, on crutches and en route to a 24-hour Walgreen’s with a prescription for Vicodin. Our kickball teammates, Simon and Scotty meet us in the parking lot with a large pizza and lots of empathy. They keep me company as we waited for my painkillers.

They admire my “TUFF” monster truck sticker I got from the nurse. Yes, I am a good patient.

The following morning, Brian takes a sick day and shuttles me to the orthopedic specialty clinic. As I kid, I would fantasize about breaking my leg and having crutches. I wanted cute boys in my elementary school to carry my cafeteria tray and hold my books. As an adult on crutches, I fantasize about growing a third arm to open doors, hold my iced latte and shame children in the waiting room who enviously eye my new form of transportation.

Luckily, I have Brian to carry my purse.

“Jaime Chismar, the doctor will see you now.”

Bowl haircut, long nose, and gaunt face, my orthopedic specialist looks just like Leonard Nimoy (without the pointy ears). He speaks into an 80’s tape recorder as he examines my file. When he tests my reflexes with a rubber mallet, I can’t get “If I had a hammer…” out of my head.

“So, what were you doing before you got injured?”

“I was playing kickball.”

“Kickball? Isn’t that a game children play with a big, red rubber ball?”

I sigh.

Spock explains how the hamstring works and feels the back of my leg. My hip felt okay, but when he feels under my buttocks, I scream and immediately whack his hand (a bold move considering he has the Vulcan death grip on his side).

“Well, you didn’t tear anything from the bone. All you can do now is rest and wait. It will take about 3 - 6 weeks for your hamstring to heal.”

At first, I cursed my bad luck. Putting on my own socks, picking up soap in the shower, walking two blocks with my coworkers for lunch — I am humbled by the things I cannot do, but I’ve also come to appreciate how lucky I am to be able bodied. It truly is a gift.

Friends and family have volunteered their services in the garden.

“You can sit in a chair and order your father around the yard,” my mother offered.

Hmmm… I’ll keep my options open and keep you posted.

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