on the injured list.

At my high school, we had a sports trainer named Jeff. I don't recall much about Jeff except that he was a really nice guy and that he had a big mole on his face. I also remember that he was sorta young and that being around high school girls made him nervous. The high school guys felt comfortable enough around him to tell dirty jokes, which also made him nervous. This is why you don't let casual acquaintances from a decade ago write your personal ads: "Very nice and shy white male with big mole on face seeks a partner. Likes pina coladas."

I had a couple of ankle incidents and so I did some time in Jeff's office. I sat there with my foot in a bucket of ice and I walked back and forth across the room so he could see any problems. He gave me one of those plastic stretchy bands and told me to do exercises at night, which I sometimes actually did. He would wrap my ankle tightly in tape before games. And any time I needed Jeff's attention, there were several other kids who did, too. Other kids who had twisted ankles, pulled muscles, or bum knees, all sitting around outside Jeff's office, telling dirty jokes and making him nervous.

There was a sort of glamour about going to see Jeff, which sounds weird, because his office was tiny and smelled like a locker room. I think it was the personal attention given to athletes, the understanding that no matter how hurt you were, you needed to be better for the next game. That's why we sat there with our feet in buckets of ice; Coach was counting on us.

My first injury was during the last regular season basketball game of my freshman year, when I came down with a rebound and landed on someone else's foot. There was an awful noise, a ccccrack!. It was so loud that I could've sworn that someone had shot me in the ankle. It was the noise that told me that I was hurt more than anything else. It just wasn't the kind of a sound that a body part should make. I tried to get up, confirmed that my right ankle needed some attention, and sat back down. I waited for them to rush out and look at my foot, and when they helped me limp off the court, the audience clapped, just like they always did on TV.

After the first injury, I wore an ankle brace on my right foot for every practice and game. Only right after a fresh injury (and right now, I think there were only two) did I need Jeff to tape my ankle. I found the ankle brace a couple of weeks ago when I was packing. It was sort of frayed and had lots of discoloration due to close contact with sneakers and foot sweat. I wondered for a moment why I had kept it and then tossed it into a box of stuff going to the house. I vaguely remember it being expensive when my mom bought it (at Jeff's suggestion), which is the only reason I can come up with for keeping the thing. Perhaps it's sentimental. Putting on and lacing up the ankle brace was part of the ritual of preparing for play. Change clothes, remove jewelry, put up hair, put on ankle brace, put on shoes, stretch, all while gossiping with your teammates who were doing the same ritual.

I twisted my ankle this week while taking out the trash. I put my right foot in a hole that I didn't know was there, heard a loud pop!, came crashing down with two trash bags and landed in the dirt. I said some choice words, clutching my ankle, and debated a bit with myself, but finally decided not to cry. And then I was confused about what to do next. There was no one waiting on the sidelines to come get me and to tape up my ankle. No one was worrying about whether I'd be able to take out the trash for the conference tournament. There were only a couple of sniggering squirrels. I took a deep breath and got up, wincing and whining all the way. I picked up the trash bags off the ground and took them to the receptacle, then hobbled back inside to find my ankle brace. No one clapped.