the mental battle through physical injury
3 more weeks of recovery to go (fingers crossed!)
Guest blog post written by Brian Ross
“This makes no sense,” I thought, as I fell backward through the air in what felt like slow motion. I remember the confusion far more vividly than the pain.
Feeling as though an external force had knocked me clear off my feet, theories flashed in my head on my way down. Did my partner just clobber me with his paddle? Did someone wander onto our court and crash into me? What did I just get slammed so hard by?
Even after I hit the ground, I couldn’t initially allow myself to consider the most obvious and horrifying explanation - that what I had felt was the sensation of my calf muscle violently snapping like an overstretched rubber band.
By chance, one of the players in this game was an orthopedic surgeon. He rushed over and gave me an exam on the spot. After a series of movement attempts and questions, he breathed a sigh of relief and patted me on the shoulder to congratulate me. “It’s not your Achilles. You just tore your calf muscle. Six weeks of rest and you should be fine.”
It was delivered as good news, but that sentence cut through me like a knife.
“Six weeks?! I can’t take six weeks off!” I yelled, adrenaline surging as the pain started to really hit me.
“Why not?” he asked.
Immediately following the injury.
5:45 AM, 15 hours earlier that same day, I awoke into pitch black. I had a drill session set for 7:00 AM at Squibb Park to travel to from Williamsburg. It would be a far stretch of the imagination to call me a morning person, but I pulled myself out of bed with no snooze and no delay.
Drills or gym in the morning, work from 9 to 6, walk the dog, and then straight to two to three hours of rec play. This had become a normal day for me. It was exhausting but I felt like I had rediscovered something that had been missing from my life for a long time.
I fell in love with tennis at a very young age and began playing in USTA junior tournaments in the 12 and under division. A large portion of my childhood was spent training for and traveling to compete in tournaments. Somewhere along the way though, I burned out. I lost my passion for the game, and all those hours of training became a millstone around my neck rather than time I was happy to devote.
When I was only accepted into a handful of low-tier schools for tennis that I didn’t want to attend, that was it for me. I gave up the sport completely. There are a lot of things I’m good at, but there’s nothing I’ve worked as hard at and been as good at since. There was a void deep inside that I didn’t realize was there, as I put the racquet down for over 15 years.
Seven months ago, my good friend Chris invited me to play something called “pickleball” with a group of his other friends at Pier 2 Brooklyn Bridge Park on a beautiful summer day. “You say it’s like a hybrid of tennis and ping-pong? Sounds fun. See you there.”
From the first point I played, I was hooked hard. A long-dormant force in me was awakened and I couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t just the gameplay that I loved either. Experiencing open play for the first time was a revelation. So many people from different backgrounds, skill levels, ages and genders all coming together to meet, play, and bond over this incredible sport with a goofy name. It was an unrivaled feeling of community and welcoming that I had never experienced anything like in tennis.
The scene can vary a lot from area to area, but that feeling of openness and community is a constant wherever I’ve played. Not long after that first day at the Pier, I had to temporarily move out of Brooklyn, to Long Island with my family. I arrived in the depths of summer, thinking I would only be there a month. It turned into almost five months due to unexpected circumstances. I don’t know what I would have done without pickleball in my life during that time.
I had my amazing girlfriend Brittany with me, but no other friends out there. We had each other but I felt so isolated and lonely at first. I ventured into the pickleball scene though and quickly started making connections. Everywhere I went, that welcoming feeling mixed with healthy competition was ever present. It’s incredible how many times I showed up to a new spot and met awesome new friends that are all still in my life today.
The more I played, the more I loved it, and the better I got. The better I got though, the more I was humbled by even better players who showed me firsthand how much more I had to learn. That didn’t discourage me in the least. It’s been a positive feedback loop that has driven me to work harder, drill more, and keep pushing myself to reach the next level. I still have so much farther to go, and so much more I need to improve.
This sport has given me so much. More friends than I’ve ever had in my life, all of whom I share a passion with. Constant and unexpected adventures sprouting from travel to areas I’ve never been to before while in search of new places to play. A medium in which I can improve every day. A healthy outlet for the competitive hunger that still burns in me.
That’s my answer to “why can’t you take six weeks off”. I count myself extremely lucky that this will be around six weeks and not a year-long injury. At the same time though, it’s so painful to have to sit on the sidelines. To go from being in the best shape of my life one day, to literally not being able to walk the next. I’m a grinder, and my natural inclination, when faced with a problem, is to bear down and work harder.
I can’t work my way through this one but I will get through it. At first, even walking with crutches was extremely difficult and painful. This week I’m down from two crutches to one. Next week I’ll be walking without any. Soon enough it’ll be “Zero-Zero Start.”
See you out there.
Brian
If you’d like to chat with Brian about pickleball, injury recovery, or life, you can find him on IG @brosspickleball or DM him in our Slack Group
Brian ready to take flight again in a few weeks
