Yesterday, one of the guys I play basketball with saw a lane, attacked it and drove towards the basket with big physicality, took a lot of contact while going for a layup, must’ve lost himself in the air, and came crashing down on his confused and discombobulated leg with the full force of his weight…
A few thuds, screeches, and blood-curdling screams later… he was laid out on the floor, in fetal position, holding onto his knee like keeping his leg attached depended on it…
We called 911. Got him as comfortable as we could. And let the professionals do what they were trained to do from there.
It wasn’t long after that I found myself sitting on the gym bench… sweat dripping from my forehead… staring at my knees.
“Man, I don’t express this enough to y’all, but thank you. Thank you for an up-until-this-point lifetime of use, abuse, and challenge with no major injury. The games I’ve played, the movements I’ve thrown, the sights I’ve seen, the independence I’ve been shown… is largely because of y’all. And I promise to keep doing my best to take care.”
Did my knees hear me?
…Obviously not.
But I heard me.
And that’s the point of gratitude.