Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him-it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at leas...
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I'm studying a model of a human knee, reading the word medial meniscus when the doctor knocks on the door twice and I signal him to come in.
"How is the new ACL feeling?" Dr. Kramer asks.
I extend and retract my right leg a few times. "It feels good, strong. I finally started squatting more than my grandmother again this week," I say.
Dr. Kramer shakes his head and laughs. "Against doctor's orders, but how did it feel when you did?"
"Like it always does. No stiffness or aches or popping," I lie.
My knee was so stiff the next day that the athletic trainer had to stretch me for almost an hour. But I decided that it was just a side effect of adding more weight along with a little too many beers and not enough protein in my diet over the summer. I should really have built my way back up, but I guess part of me just needed to know that I still could. That everything hasn't gone to shit.
I've been coming to this god forsaken rehab facility since I tore my ACL in the championship game last January. I only got to play until halftime because I tore it on our first possession in the third quarter. I didn't have the surgery right away, opting to wait a few weeks to finally go home and spend some time with my family first. But when I came back to school, I came straight to Dr. Kramer. He claims to be the best, but the best would have me back on the field already if you ask me.
"Great, let's take a look at your latest scans," Dr. Kramer says.
Dr. Kramer clicks something on his iPad and then the images appear on the TV screen hanging on the wall across from me. The screen is split into three separate images, each with their own label, dates I realize. A before surgery, after about a month of physical therapy and then last week when I went for the scan.
He pauses for a long time. The only sound in the room is the tapping of my boot heel on the white porcelain floor. I can't help it. It's a nervous habit I developed when I was a kid. I don't even notice it anymore really. This room is just eerily quiet considering there are about ninety oversized men just down the hall watching film.
"Come on Doc, the silence is killing me. Can I play in the opener against FGC or not," I finally say. It just kinda spills out rather than me making an actual conscious effort to speak.
He puts the end of his pen up to his mouth in a way that tells me nothing good is about to come out of that shit hole. "There is more anthrofibris tissue than I would like to see."
"Simple terms Doc. Please."My words clipped. My mama raised me with better manners, but I need him to get to the point.
"Scar tissue Taylor. Right here," he says pointing to a thin line of white surrounding the little white mass I have come to know as my patella tendon.
