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Anyone who has ever played sports knows the pain from injuries, from sprained fingers and knees to broken bones. But for almost any athlete "torn ACL" are about the worst words one can hear. Mike Horton is a legal assistant in Atlanta and he shares his story on his injury and his road back to recovery. We present the first part here.

Sept. 14, 2004

Before today, I loved morning hoops with the guys from work.   

I’m out to all of them, and they completely define the “straight but not narrow” label.  They’ve nicknamed me Nelly because I’m anything but a fem.  Occasionally, they’ll slap me on my rump, just like any other teammate, sometimes more for comic relief.  One of them, Greg Klingaman, even has developed the habit of saying, “Nice shot, Taurasi,” when I bust my trademark standstill 3, which I do to wake up my teammates and remind them they’re doing a poor job of getting open for the ball. 

It’s amazing that a big core of our leadership plays.  It’s nice to be on teams with the Eastern Division President or some of the other EVPs.  It’s not quite as nice when I’m teamed with my boss, the EVP of Litigation; my day is stressful enough reporting to him without having to worry about getting the ball to him, although he does have a good shot. 

We’ve been playing here at a middle school gym near our Home Depot corporate headquarters in Northwest Atlanta for a little over a year now.  Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays at 6 a.m.  Our games have become so phenomenal.  Some of us have college experience, but that experience is at the lower collegiate levels, like my Division III experience.  One of us played at Navy with “The Admiral,” David Robinson, and he’s a point guard’s dream to have on your team: moves well and is always the perfect target down low. 

We only have one court, but it’s a nice one, nicer than most middle school gyms and helped by its location in an affluent suburb.  Usually, we have eight to 12 guys, enough to run a full-court game or two or three.  Since mid-July, our attendance has swelled and often we have 14 to 15 guys show up.  One morning, we had two full teams waiting, and they didn’t even get to play, as our first game turned into a 55-minute marathon, complete with phenomenal defense and teamwork and absent of bad shooting.  (Our games are always to 25 by 1’s and 2’s, and you must win by two; the final score of this game was 33-31.)  We play ball like it’s meant to be played.  No snowbirding. 

This morning we have eight, just enough.  When teams are divided, our team collectively expresses an “oh crap” gasp.  The other team is taller with probably the two best athletes on the court on their side.  Nonetheless we dominate, and are leading 24-4 when I pull up on a 2-on-3 fast break.  I know instantly as the ball leaves my hand the shot will be off to the right, part of my instincts of having taking thousands of shots like these.  You just know when it’s not money. 

I go to follow the shot and decide I’m gonna showboat a little.  As I tip the shot in, I slap the backboard and scream “Yeah, Nelly,” just to rub in the loss.  (Straight boys are so cute when they’re humbled.) 

Now, take a second and slap the palms of your hands together.  Fiercely.  That loud popping sound is the sound my knee makes when I land on it, and instantly I know what’s happened. 

In my mind I am cursing at myself.  I try to walk around, but my knee buckles.  I have no feeling other than feeling white with pain.  That makes no sense, but white is what I think of when trying to describe what has just happened.  Everything is white, blank, and I’m telling myself, “No, this did not just happen … God, no, please, not now.” 

I know I’ve torn my ACL. 

I shower at our gym at work and try to convince myself that it’s not an ACL tear.  I try to employ the “reduction to absurdity” theory Dr. Phil speaks of when I talk to the guys in the locker room.  “If it were an ACL, I wouldn’t be able to bear weight on it,” I lie, trying to convince myself.  “And it wouldn’t swell like this, either.”  Of course, I have no idea about what I’m saying.   

I spend the morning trying to get my doctor on the phone to schedule an appointment.  He of course will do nothing more than prescribe some painkillers and refer me to a sports doctor.  I get an appointment for tomorrow. 

Sept. 15, 2004

For any athlete who participates in serious sports, particularly basketball, tennis, and football, and also skiing, a torn anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) is a diagnosis you don’t want to hear.  Almost always surgery is necessary, and although the recovery is typically strong and complete, it is an injury that psychologically haunts you to handicap: no matter how well you return to your old form, you’re always fearful that you might reinjure yourself, and often you’re more cautious, more hesitant, and less of a competitor.  The injury, surgery, and subsequent rehabilitation spells a six- to nine-month layoff, and when you love the game of basketball as much as I do, it’s tough to digest. 

Although he knows little about knee injuries, I know I am good hands with Jeff Rollins.  He has been my primary care physician since I moved to Atlanta, and he is an amazing doctor who’s more proactive regarding my health than I am.  I trust him as I trust very few and have faith in our doctor-patient relationship. 

Jeff cannot appropriately diagnose the injury because of the swelling.  He refers me to Dr. Michael Bernot, who is one of the most widely-renowned sports injury doctors around, including working as the Atlanta Hawks team doctor, according to Jeff.  Simple yet important to say that he knows knees.  Jeff’s nurse schedules me an appointment on Sept. 20 with Dr. Bernot. 

Sept. 20, 2004

I really like Dr. Bernot’s staff.  His PA, Ed, is awesome, knowledge, and a big flirt for a straight guy.  His wife is a paralegal, so he’s making all sorts of jabs about paralegals to irritate me; meanwhile, to make him blush, I flirt shamelessly.  He has fun with it, and it eases my mind about why I am here. 

An X-ray of my knee is done to make sure nothing is broken.  Dr. Bernot then has Ed schedule an MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) Exam at the center downstairs.   

At 5:30, I come back for my MRI.  I am given the film to give Dr. Bernot on my next visit with him, on Sept. 30.  I wish I knew someone who could read imaging film. 

Sept. 30, 2004

I sit nervously in my exam room.  Everything is magnified in sound, exaggerated, and just my watch tick seems to sound like the structured banging of a bass drum.  

I hear Dr. Bernot take my images from the box on my exam room’s door.  I hear him consulting with Ed, hear him mumble the words I pretend not to hear.  I fall back onto the table, hard, and bring my hands to my head.  “Oh no,” I mumble to myself in agony. 

I sit back upright.  It seems an eternity before Dr. Bernot opens the door.  The first thing he says, and the last thing I hear for at least five minutes, as I am sent spinning into despair, is “You’ve got a complete ACL tear in your right knee.” 

Ed schedules my surgery and tells me to relax.  “We’ll have you dominating those straight boys again soon.”  I giggle and somberly ask if he wants to play a game of horse or something.  “Heh, heh, heh, you’re funny,” he sarcastically replies, then declines my invitation.  “Much better,” he says as he leaves the exam room. 

My surgery is scheduled for Oct. 15.  Two weeks notice.

Next: The Surgery - Before and After

Dec. 2, 2004