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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.

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Previously: 'I Know I've Torn My ACL'

Oct. 6, 2004 (The Pre-Op Visit)

I am back at Dr. Bernot’s office for my pre-operative assessment. I am looking at all of the athletes who have written notes on photo accomplishments, autographed testimonials. From fishermen to shotputters, rotator cuffs to Achilles tears. They’re all here. I am hoping, in eight or so months, to be one of them.

The nurse insists on weighing me, to which I lie and say, “I weigh every morning, and this morning I was 178.” Problem is how badly I am lying to myself, since I haven’t seen 178 since 2002. This morning at the gym I was 193.5, about 25-30 pounds heavier than my comfortable playing weight. I have been wondering if that did not attribute to my injury-laden year, since, like any athlete who ages and “spreads,” I still am trying to do things a much nimbler and lighter version of myself could do. Since I no longer watch my weight the way I did while modeling in my early 20s, I have also failed to modify my diet. I have made the solemn commitment to lose that excess during my rehab and have been working with my friend, JW Murphy, to aggressively seek out an eating pattern that will assist that proposed weight loss. (My friend and work colleague, Casey Norton, has however issued the caveat that I am not to get as thin as my

one-time modeling weight of 163 or she will throw crackers at me each time she sees me anywhere at work.)

Ed and I talk over my choices of ACL replacement, and I decide on the allograft, which is also known as the cadeavor replacement. The trendy graft nowadays is from one’s own hamstring, but I recently met a girl at my gym who had that done and has had serious problems. Besides, I have issues with someone cutting one part of my body to repair another; something just seems illogical. (Furthermore, the donor, God rest his or her soul, wanted me to have the donor graft; that’s why it was “donated.”)

Everything is set. My surgery is set for October 15 at 3pm. Upon returning to work I start lining up the volunteers to be with me during and immediately following my surgery. This is hard for me because I don’t like asking for help. That’s obnoxious, I know, but it’s me. I’m not good depending on the kindness of others. It makes me look disingenuous to say that, but I can’t change me.

Oct. 9, 2004 (The Athens Diversion)

While my buds on the Atlanta Thunder are playing here in Atlanta, along with several other teams from across the country, in the Gay Bowl IV Flag-Football Tournament, I am heading to Athens with my dear friend, Cindy Abel, to experience my first SEC football game.

There are some places around the country where football is religion, and there’s no better geographical testimony to that than a game in Athens. The University of Georgia, according to its game program, has the fifth largest NCAA Football Stadium in the country.

Cindy is a beautiful platinum blonde, a former college basketball player and coach who quite often is my most sincere confidante. She, in so many ways, is my hero, a political consultant running an amazing marketing firm and unafraid to express her sexuality to her clients. Quite often, it is that fearlessness that allows her to snag the clients she does. Usually in elections, Cindy and I are working on opposing campaigns, which cements our personal motto of “We’re not speaking until after the elections,” but when I really need someone, Cindy is my clutch player, and I cherish that about her.

This year’s primary election cycle took a toll on our friendship. Before we committed ourselves to our respective candidate’s trenches, we agreed that, no matter what was going on, we would take October 9^th off and attend the Georgia-Tennessee football game. One of the attorneys for whom I work is a big UGA supporter, and she gave us tickets. Despite a relatively cool overcast day, we make it a ragtop road trip, putting the top down on Cindy’s Miata. We talk nonstop for two hours, even some about politics, but mostly about boys and girls and the upcoming college basketball season.

Athens seems bathed in a sea of red. I’ve tailgated before, but what I see here is ridiculous. It’s amazing. Energizing. Magical. Even the stickers that say “Bulldogs for Bush” don’t seem to be as stinging as they should to a gay man and a lesbian. (As a Republican, I am proud of the party support, but as a gay man who is very upset with the current administration, my heart stings for these people who can’t see how un-Republican Dubya has become.)

What the attorney who gave me the tickets and the parking pass neglected to tell me is that parking is not always guaranteed, even when you have a parking pass. When we get to the lot, we’re told it’s full.

“No wait…we got one space,” one attendant confirms.

“You gonna squeeze them in there??” the other one asks.

“It’s a small car….I think we can do it.”

We’re directed to the very small space. Some tailgaters politely interrupt their party momentarily, long enough move their stuff so Cindy can now back into our spot, their picnic area. She masterfully squeezes in the Miata, humbling two of the larger tailgaters who have offered to “pick up the little thang and put in down thar” for her. Cindy winks at them and offers up a “I think I managed well enough, boys,” and the two hosses seem to crumble. They look at her and then give me an approving grin…ugh, straight men.

Cindy has left me with about three inches from which to exit the passenger side. I cannot open the door. Before she starts to put the top up on the Miata, I slide over its side in appropriate Luke Duke fashion. “Very nice,” she says as she smiles at me, “now just think how amazing you’ll be at that six months after your knee surgery next week.”

She turns to the horde of tailgaters, particularly the two bigger ones, and says, “Aren’t you proud of my Mikey? He did that little trick for y’all with a bum knee, a torn ACL.”

They stutter amongst themselves. “Very nice,” one of them replies, “now, have a piece a’ chicken.”

He flips the fried chicken leg at me, trying to show me up. I bend at the waist and catch the leg in my mouth. “Yummy,” I respond after taking a bite. In obnoxious barbaric imitation I lick the bone. “Lemon pepper shake-n-bake!” Everyone laughs.

Cindy and I are indulgent, dining on big Angus burgers, homestyle fries, two Bass drafts each, and finally split a piece of red velvet cake. We walk around Athens in its autumn splendor. I realize at this moment just how badly my friendship with Cindy has been damaged by this political year, and I silently make a pact that I want to make sure that never happens again. One of the great lessons sports has taught me in 26 years is that you never alienate your tribe, especially those who look to you as if you are golden. Teamwork means there’ll always be disagreements, but when you walk onto that court, you stand united. I fell down on that responsibility this year with people like Cindy. Like I said, it won’t ever happen again. She is too important to me. This diversion has been healthy for me, for us both. I think of the lines from Dashboard Confessional’s “Hands Down” song and smile: “hands down this is the best day I can ever remember, I’ll always remember.” It doesn’t take much more than recommitting to a trusted friendship to make me happy, just like it doesn’t take much to make a point guard happy other than teammates who have all faith and trust in his leadership.

Cindy’s about the only person at this point in my life to whom the less I say the closer our friendship grows. That’s the greatest compliment I could give to her. We plan to take a pottery class after the elections. Or, maybe we’ll just save up our money, buy a pottery wheel and a few bottles of wine, and we’ll see what we can create. A lot of folks are probably going to be getting misshapen orange ashtrays for as holiday gifts if we do that.

Heading back to Atlanta, I confess to her that I have never been more scared. I am scared I won’t be half the athlete I am before the surgery.

“Nonsense, Mikey,” she says to me. “You’ll come out of it stronger, you always do. I expect nothing less. Those straight boys at work had better be working even harder than you, if that’s possible. They’d better cherish their games now.”

Her words are simple yet provide the impact I need. Only one person’s belief in you can make you a better man, and Cindy’s pledge to me lets me know I can count on her to not let me concede to my fears and give up during my recovery.

Oct. 14, 2004

I watch the Miami-Louisville game with my flag-football teammates. JW is there with Mike, with whom he has just reconciled. They were together for seven years and broke up a little less than two years ago. After a year and a half of watching him struggle, I am glad to see him happy again the way he deserves, which is also how I want to him to be.

I, of course, cannot eat or drink, and two people buy me shots I can’t have. JW sees the fear on my face, and he calls me a girl. He does it all night long; I need his reverse psychology.

I talk to Anderson, my ex and first real boyfriend when I moved to Atlanta, at 11pm. He has come in to town to spend the weekend and take care of me. He wasn’t the first person I told; in fact, I waited until I absolutely knew I had to tell him. The day after I had told him he called and confirmed when he would be driving in and had already planned out the details. I confirm to him I will be ready at 12:30, gay time. He mimics and calls out my nervousness, says he’ll see me at one-ish. “After all, they can’t start the slicing and dicing without you,” he says, attempting as much humor as I will allow.

I take an Ambien that has little effect. I cannot sleep. After midnight, I find an empty parking lot over near Piedmont Park and do some dribbling drills like I used to do during my high school and college days. Although the cutting action hurts, I force myself through it. One last time. One last time. I keep saying that in my head as I do the drills. In the back of my mind I am thinking that this is the last drill I’ll be able to do.

At 3am, I crawl into my hot tub. Fifteen minutes later, I lay down. I sleep for about thirty minutes. I go back outside and lay on my deck, facing upward to the night sky. The new moon is an omen. I’ll be okay.

Oct. 15, 2004 (Part One: The Day Arrives)

Anderson arrives to find me putting new sheets on my bed and frantically zigzagging around my room. He makes a joke that I should have had more knee surgeries when we dated, and that way he could have gotten to sleep on clean sheets more often. Funny ha-ha, I think.

We get to the surgical center, and, of course, it seems an eternity before the nurse comes out to the waiting room to speak to us. Before she can say a word, Anderson interrupts her. “He needs a sedative. Now.”

She turns and goes back through the doors. Less than five minutes later, she is emptying the syringe of Versed into my IV, which they’ve just hooked up. She says she has to shave my leg, and I show her it’s already done. I’ve brought my basketball preview mags, Athlon, Street & Smiths, The ACC Basketball Handbook, and I nervously flip through them. The versed has made me giddy but worsened my overall state. The nurse tries her hardest to make me relax. I even giggle when she writes “Yes” both above and below the knee.

Before I am even aware of it, I am being wheeled back into a frigid operating room. At least they are playing country music, I think to myself. The anesthesiologist comes in and tells me I will start to feel a burning sensation in my IV and that I will need to start counting backwards.

The last thing I remember saying is: “No, let me finish listening to Gretchen Wilson first.”

Oct. 15, 2004 (Part Two: Post-Op)

In what seems instantaneous, I am again awake. Drowsy, but awake. Nauseous, but awake. (I think it’s more of how the nurse is an evangelical Bush supporter but normally votes Democrat than of the ether on an empty stomach supposition that pushes me over the edge.)

Once lucid, I glance down at the knee. Huge soft cast under a white embolism stocking. I am told to wear these for a week. All of sudden I feel so geriatric.

I try and pay attention when Dr. Bernot comes over for the post-op chat. He assures me that everything went wonderfully and after two weeks on the crutches I’ll be able to start bearing weight on the knee and leg. Swelling will exist for a while and the blood bruising and fluid around the knee will slowly move downward and eventually disappear.

I start to dress myself. I lift my leg, which feels to me like it could anchor any of the aircraft carrier vessels in the US Navy. I am lucky that I am the last scheduled patient of the day, as I pull my curtain down trying to pull up my boxer briefs. (Of course, the nurses gladly would have helped me dress, but I had none of that; I even wouldn’t let Anderson help and told him instead to go get his car ready.) Nothing feels better than cold concrete hospital floor against your bare butt post-op. As the nurses come over to make sure I’m alright, I gather my remaining dignity and pull up my briefs, put on my shorts, t-shirt and BoSox cap. I think to myself, never one to admit how much this is gonna hurt, that the next couple of weeks will be a challenging lesson for me.

I am wheeled to Anderson’s waiting car at the E/R exit. He looks at me with the strangest look on his face, and I understand that he’s trying not to mimic the saddened look on my own face. Mimicry. Any number of years of a relationship with someone will make you understand how he hurts emotionally when that which he worships most physically about himself is taken from him, even if temporary. You hurt when he hurts, and I’m certain that despite the fact that we have long since been apart as lovers Anderson understands how I am hurting inside but will never admit it. My new knee will be fine, but he knows I am thinking about the damage on the inside, much like the dog who gets hit by the car and runs away. Many nights we laid together, and many of those I told him of my hoop dreams and nightmares. He understood what my quiet meant when I came home nights after losses, even in such things as pick up games after working out. He would just hold me until I fell asleep.

Somewhat larger than I am, he is able to pick me up from the wheel chair, as if I am his most valuable possession, and sit me into the passenger side of his BMW. He will do the same motions some sixty minutes later, after he’s picked up my pain prescriptions at CVS, after we’ve made it to my home and he’s changed me into my sleeveless tee, and he tucks me into bed and lies beside me for as long as I can remember, until I again fall asleep.

I never told him thank you, I remember.  Sounds cheesy, but I know I’ll never have to, just like he never had to say he was proud of me, win or lose, or that he had grown out of love with me despite knowing that he would always love me.  Cliché as might be, there’s truth to the value of the unsaid words.

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Previously: 'I Know I've Torn My ACL'
Next: Dealing With The Weeks After Surgery

Jan. 4, 2004