I. Introduction: A Notts County Man’s Delusional Dream (and Poor Life Choices)
Football is a simple game. You pass, you move, you score. You also, if you are 40 years old, 6’3″, 280 lbs, and a former goalkeeper, should absolutely not be hammering shots like prime Wayne Rooney on a frozen, then-thawed, then-flooded public park in Calgary.
And yet, that is exactly what I did.
Because I had a mission.
I was teaching my four-month-old puppy, Wilco, to fetch.
Cue the tunes!
On the surface, this was a noble cause. A man, a ball, a dog, a dream. But the reality was more complicated. Wilco, an Alberta-born, brindle-coated menace, has prey drive through the roof. Fetching? That’s not her game. Chasing, mauling, pouncing? Absolutely. The ball was less an object to be returned and more an enemy to be subdued. A small, spherical lifeform that must be neutralized with extreme prejudice.
Still, I was convinced I could coach her into a proper attacking threat. A future No. 9. A lethal finisher in front of goal.
I was deluded.
The Setting: A Footballing Catastrophe in the Making
- The pitch? Unplayable. Five days ago, it was a literal lake. Today, it was a muddy Isthmian League warzone—deep puddles, soft ground, and just enough frozen bits underneath to make planting your foot an adventure.
- The weather? Calgary in early spring. Which means three weeks of -20°C, followed by a violent +35°C swing that transformed every park into an ex-glacier.
- The kit?
- Linen pants. Because, of course, I decided to wear lightweight summer fabric for winter swamp conditions.
- Prime Rogue Inc. t-shirt. Branding never sleeps.
- Business socks. Because nothing pairs better with deep winter boots (untied, naturally) than socks meant for boardrooms.
- Notts County coach’s bench jacket. Giving off the illusion of footballing competence, despite the reality unfolding beneath it.
- A beanie. To keep my head warm, but offer no wisdom.
From the outside, I probably looked like a football casual who had been forcibly ejected from Meadow Lane, wandered the earth for years, and landed in Calgary to finish his career in disgrace.
But in my mind? This was training.
The Mission: Train Wilco, Become a Playmaker, Defy Biology
And so, in these horrific conditions, I made my second terrible decision of the day:
- I decided I was no longer a goalkeeper.
- I decided I was a creative midfielder.
- I decided that today, of all days, I was going to run shooting drills.
A 40-year-old man. In untied deep winter boots.
On mud that was a lake five days ago.
Taking full-powered shots, non-stop, on a puppy that didn’t even believe in the concept of retrieving.
It was only a matter of time before something went catastrophically wrong – almost as wrong as the fraud of AI alignment.
And let me tell you, it did.
Cue: The Michael Doyle FA Trophy Moment.
Cue: The moment I lost a 1v1 to my own quadriceps.
I lined up another shot.
I swung through it.
And that’s when my leg exploded.
II. The Training Ground: Bog Conditions, Winter Boots, and Wilco’s Tactical Indiscipline
A football pitch should be a place of precision, movement, and tactical brilliance.
This was not a football pitch.
This was a post-apocalyptic bog.
Five days ago, it had been a lake. Not a metaphorical “bad pitch” lake—an actual, physical body of standing water. But then the great Calgary weather shift happened, the way it always does. -20°C for three weeks, followed by an instant +15°C thaw. Everything flooded. Then everything sank.
And yet, despite every possible warning sign, I still went out to play.
The Pitch: A Lower-League Nightmare
The surface had no right to be used for anything.
It was still recovering from its brief existence as an inland sea.
- Traction? Nonexistent.
- Grip? The opposite of grip.
- Structural integrity? Absolutely fucking not.
Every step felt like a scientific experiment in discovering new ways to slide.
There were patches of deep, clinging mud.
There were sections of slush.
And worst of all, there were still-icy bits underneath, waiting to betray me.
It was the perfect pitch… for an injury.
The Equipment: A Masterclass in Poor Decisions
But the real disaster-class in decision-making wasn’t just the pitch. It was what I chose to wear.
- Linen pants.
- Why?
- The lightweight fabric offered exactly zero protection against the deep, sticky mud that was about to consume them.
- Every other adult in Calgary: Wearing jeans or sweats.
- Me: Playing in pants designed for drinking wine by the ocean.
- Prime Rogue Inc. T-shirt.
- Because, apparently, branding stops for nothing—not even self-inflicted catastrophe.
- Business socks.
- They had no reason to be involved in this. None.
- They were not built for deep-winter boots or non-league mud football.
- But there they were, inexplicably part of this tragedy.
- Untied deep-winter boots.
- This, right here, was the biggest tactical disaster.
- They weren’t even pretending to be football boots.
- They were deep-winter survival boots, meant for trudging through knee-high snow, not for playing football.
- Worse, they were untied, flopping around my ankles like a clown’s shoes.
- This was the equivalent of showing up to a cup final wearing ski boots.
- Notts County coach’s bench jacket.
- A symbol of footballing wisdom… being ignored in real-time.
- A beanie.
- Kept the head warm. Offered no tactical insight.
From a distance, I must have looked completely unhinged.
Imagine seeing a 6’3”, 280-pound man in linen pants, business socks, and half-undone survival boots, trudging through the mud, attempting full-power strikes while commentating in a fake British accent.
This wasn’t training.
This was a full-scale footballing mental breakdown.
Wilco’s Role: The Academy Prospect with No Tactical Discipline
And then there was Wilco.
Wilco was supposed to be the reason I was out here. This was her training session. She was learning to fetch.
She had other plans.
- She did not fetch.
- She did not return the ball.
- She did not, in any way, play the role I expected.
Instead, Wilco treated the football as prey.
She stalked it. She pounced. She growled. She shook it violently.
Every single ball she “retrieved” was brought back dead.
She was not a striker.
She was not a midfielder.
She was a football-murdering psychopath.
This was not training.
This was pure, tactical indiscipline.
Wilco was not going to learn anything today.
And honestly? Neither was I.
The Final Decision: Playmaker Mode Activated
At this point, I should have packed it in. Seen the warning signs. Gone home.
But no.
Instead, I made the worst possible decision I could have made.
I decided… to run shooting drills.
I am a goalkeeper.
I am 40 years old.
I am wearing linen pants and untied winter boots.
The pitch is unplayable.
Wilco does not fetch.
But somewhere deep in my brain, the logic broke down.
Because I thought, “You know what? Let’s have a hit.”
And That’s When The Michael Doyle Moment Happened.
30 shots later, my quadriceps exploded.
III. The Michael Doyle Moment: The 30-Shot Suicide Mission
(Because nothing captures the slow-motion buildup of an athlete ignoring every single warning sign before complete physical destruction quite like this song.)
The Moment I Chose Violence
Every single footballer has that moment.
The one where they should stop but don’t.
The one where their body quietly suggests, “Maybe take it easy,” and they respond with, “Fuck that.”**
This was my moment.
I was no longer a 40-year-old goalkeeper with a history of non-cardio-based existence.
I was no longer a man standing in a half-melted swamp in Calgary.
I was no longer playing against a four-month-old puppy who fundamentally did not believe in returning the ball.
🎶 “And the pounding in my heart…”
At that moment, in my mind, I was a playmaker.
A midfield general.
A quarterback in the engine room, dictating play.
Steven Gerrard in Istanbul.
Michael Doyle vs. Dagenham & Redbridge in 2020.
So, naturally, I lined up a shot.
Shot 1 – The Confidence Builder
🎶 “And the motion of my soul…”
- Contact? Clean.
- Weight shift? Controlled.
- Ball movement? Ideal.
It felt effortless.
It felt correct.
It felt like I should do it again.
Wilco charged after the ball like a hunter pursuing wounded prey.
She did not return it.
I retrieved it myself.
This was already the first sign of trouble.
This was already the moment I should have stopped.
Instead, I kept going.
Shot 5 – The False Sense of Security
🎶 “Like a full force gale…”
Now, I was stepping into my shots.
Now, I was striking with intent.
Now, I was forgetting that I am built for standing still and catching things, not generating power from open play.
Wilco, meanwhile, was bringing a new element into her game.
She was now pouncing on the ball, growling, shaking it, and then wandering off.
She was not training.
She was executing prisoners.
And yet, I still refused to acknowledge that this was going nowhere.
Shot 10 – The Delusions of Grandeur
🎶 “Taking over, taking control…”
- Mud? Everywhere.
- Linen pants? Ruined.
- Boots? Still untied.
- Wilco? Completely indifferent.
The false belief of athleticism was now fully operational.
I was taking first-time shots.
I was imagining myself in full match scenarios.
I was creating a completely fictionalized version of myself in my own head.
I was sprinting onto the ball (more of a rapid waddle, but in my mind, it was a sprint).
I was hitting driven shots from distance (in reality, they were probably average Sunday League strikes at best).
This was getting out of control.
Shot 20 – The First Warning
🎶 “Like a drum I’m beating faster…”
A sharp twinge.
- Right quad.
- Fast. Sudden.
- Deep enough to notice, not bad enough to stop.
Do I stop? No.
Do I take a moment to stretch? No.
Do I even acknowledge it? Absolutely fucking not.**
Instead, I take another shot.
Shot 25 – The Inevitable Fate Approaches
🎶 “With the rhythm of a beating drum…”
Something feels wrong.
I plant my foot in mud.
My standing leg finds a frozen patch underneath.
I am no longer in control of my own physics.
Wilco is still ignoring the ball.
My quad is begging me to reconsider my life choices.
I have five more shots in me.
I should stop at twenty-five.
But no.
One more. Just one more.
Shot 30 – The Michael Doyle Moment, But Instead of Glory, It’s Career-Ending Horror
🎶 “And the pounding in my heart…”
The setup is perfect.
The ball rolls into position.
I step up.
I shift my weight.
I strike.
🔥 PAIN.
🔥 SEARING, IMMEDIATE, DEBILITATING PAIN.
🔥 A FEELING LIKE MY QUAD HAS PHYSICALLY DETACHED FROM MY SKELETON.
🎶 “And the motion of my soul…”
(Except my soul is now leaving my body.)
I do not celebrate.
I do not scream.
I do not collapse, but I should.
Instead, I freeze.
The Instant Realization of Doom
I know immediately.
This is not a cramp.
This is not tightness.
This is structural failure.
The quad is no longer part of the team.
The knee is now taking on more responsibility than it was ever designed for.
🎶 “Like a drum I’m beating faster…”
🔥 This is real.
🔥 This is permanent.
🔥 This is bad.
Wilco’s Reaction: Complete and Total Apathy
Wilco, my future No. 9, my star academy prospect, my would-be playmaker in training, does not care.
She looks at me.
She looks at the ball.
She does not return the ball.
Instead, she sniffs the ground, finds something more interesting, and walks away.
The training session is over.
The Moment of Reckoning
I stand there, quad ruined, pain radiating, boots untied, pants covered in mud.
I do not have my phone in my hand yet.
I do not yet know that I will be calling my wife for an emergency extraction.
Right now, all I know is:
- I am injured.
- I cannot properly walk.
- I am standing in a public park, in broad daylight, looking like a collapsed non-league midfielder who has just suffered his final ACL tear.
And that is when I realize I have to make it home.
One block. Two blocks. Three blocks. No – four – and one is a long one. A half-kilometer trek on a destroyed leg.
I was closer to the pub than to my house. Shite!
🎶 “And the pounding in my heart…”
No. The pounding is in my quad. And it is not okay.
IV. The Street Crossing Disaster: The Moment I Realized I Needed Extraction
(Because this is the exact moment where denial gives way to brutal reality. I am no longer a footballer. I am a broken man in linen pants.)
The Walk Begins: A Man, A Ruined Quad, and A Dog That Does Not Fetch
Football injuries happen in moments of battle.
They happen on the pitch, in the heat of competition, surrounded by teammates, with the roar of the crowd in the background.
That is not how mine happened.
Mine happened alone, in a muddy park, wearing linen pants, while my four-month-old puppy ignored every tactical instruction.
But now, the match was over.
Now, I had one objective: Get home.
🎶 “All these walls were never really there…”
I was not okay.
I could not walk properly.
Every step sent fire through my quad.
Every planted foot felt like a betrayal.
And yet, I refused to accept reality.
I was not calling for help.
I was going to make it home under my own power.
I was going to tough it out.
So I limped forward.
Wilco, still utterly unbothered by my crisis, trotted ahead.
She did not realize that her trainer was now operating at 25% speed and rapidly declining.
The False Hope of the First Block
The first block was survivable.
- Painful? Yes.
- Uncomfortable? Excruciating.
- Doable? Barely.
I was moving with a bizarre shuffle, compensating for the fact that my right leg no longer functioned properly.
Every step required a strategic bend.
Every weight shift felt unstable.
But I was still moving forward.
I started to believe.
Maybe I can actually make it home.
And then… I reached the street crossing.
The Moment It All Fell Apart
🎶 “Nor the ceiling or the chair…”
I stood at the curb.
I looked at the road.
I took one step forward.
🔥 Pain.
🔥 Immediate, sharp, non-negotiable pain.
🔥 The kind of pain that makes you rethink your entire life.
My leg nearly buckled.
For a brief, horrifying moment, I actually thought I might go down in the middle of the street.
Not on the pitch.
Not in battle.
Not in a moment of glory.
In the middle of a fucking road, in broad daylight, in front of Calgary’s well-to-do Killarney neighborhood residents.
🎶 “I’m always caught in the middle…”
This was no longer about me.
This was now about Wilco.
If I collapsed in the street, Wilco would be stuck, mid-road, attached to my leash.
This was now a safety issue.
For the first time since the injury, I admitted the truth.
I was not making it home alone.
The Call for Extraction
I reached into my pocket.
I pulled out my phone.
I called my wife.
The situation on her end? Not great.
She had been experiencing her own crisis.
A gastrointestinal battle of unprecedented proportions.
She had been locked in the bathroom for an extended period of time, dealing with problems of her own.
And now, I was calling her for a rescue mission.
🎶 “It’s all these situations, I tend to get stuck in…”
The Conversation (As I Remember It)
Phone rings.
She picks up.
💬 Me: “I need extraction.”
💬 Her: “What? Extraction? What the fuck are you talking about?”*
💬 Me: “I almost fell over in the middle of the road. Wilco is at risk.”
💬 Her: “Again? You fucking idiot. Jesus Christ. You’re serious?”
💬 Me: “Yes. I can make it to the church. After that, I don’t know.”
💬 Her: “…I swear to fucking God, if I have to leave the bathroom for this—”*
💬 Me: “See you soon.”
🎶 “I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky…”
The Crawl to the Church
I hobbled across the street.
I did not collapse.
But I came close.
One block. Two small blocks.
Each one felt like five kilometers.
The church was the only safe zone within range.
🎶 “Let’s push things forward…”
I needed to make it there before my leg completely gave out.
My wife was “soon” to be en route.
My quad was finished.
My dignity was somewhere back in the mud.
I had made it halfway.
But my public humiliation was just beginning.
V. The Midway Church Rest Stop: Publicly Broken, Observed by Killarney’s Upper-Middle-Class Civilians
(Because this is not a moment of struggle—it’s a moment of surrender. A quiet, slow-motion realization that I have lost, and there is no coming back from this.)
The Arrival at the Church: A Temporary Sanctuary for the Footballing Wounded
I made it.
Barely.
One long block.
Two small blocks.
And now, I could go no further.
The church was not a planned stop.
The church was not a tactical decision.
The church was simply the closest available piece of real estate where I could collapse without actively endangering Wilco.
There was also… a tree!
🎶 “A heart that’s full up like a landfill…”
I lowered myself onto the grass, slowly, painfully, like a man trying to sit down without using his legs.
The linen pants rode up past my knee.
The winter boots flopped around uselessly.
The business socks were still entirely inappropriate.
The Notts County coach’s jacket gave the illusion of tactical competence—despite everything that had just unfolded.
Wilco was unbothered.
Wilco sniffed the ground, tail wagging, still unconvinced that fetching was a thing worth doing.
Meanwhile, I sat there, alone, outside a church, contemplating my life choices.
The Scene: A Public Spectacle of Defeat
This wasn’t just a bad moment.
This was a full-blown public embarrassment.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon.
People were out and about, living their lives.
Joggers passed by.
A dad strolled by, pushing a stroller, a Second Cup in one hand, chatting with his wife about mortgage rates.
A dog walker nodded politely, pretending not to notice the 6’3” bearded man sitting on the pavement, looking like he had just been hit by a sniper.
Nobody stopped.
Nobody asked if I was okay.
Not because they were cruel.
But because this is Canada, and Canadians do not get involved in other people’s shit unless absolutely necessary.
🎶 “Such a pretty house, and such a pretty garden…”
The Final Humiliation: Outpaced by an Elderly Couple
Then it happened.
The moment that would haunt me forever.
At first, I heard them before I saw them.
The soft shuffle of feet against pavement.
The measured, controlled breathing of people who knew their limits.
And then, they appeared.
An elderly couple, late 70s, maybe 80s.
- The man? Leading confidently, dog leash in hand, moving with the unhurried assurance of a man who had walked this path a thousand times.
- The woman? Walking with a cane.
And not just using the cane—actively outpacing me.
She was not struggling.
She was not struggling at all.
And then it happened.
As she slowly, methodically, steadily walked past me, she turned, met my eyes… and smiled.
🎶 “I’ll take a quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide…”
The Psychological Damage of That Smile
That smile was not pity.
That smile was not mockery.
That smile was pure, unfiltered kindness.
Which made it so much worse.
Had she laughed? I could have handled it.
Had she sneered? I could have justified it.
But no.
She smiled the way a grandmother smiles at a toddler who has just fallen while learning to walk.
She smiled the way an experienced nurse smiles at a first-time hospital patient who thinks a routine procedure is the end of the world.
She smiled the way people smile when they have lived long enough to know that everyone, at some point, does something catastrophically stupid and pays the price for it.
Her smile said, “You poor, dumb bastard. It happens to all of us eventually.”
And then she overtook me.
🎶 “No alarms and no surprises, please…”
The Wife’s Arrival: My Final Act of Surrender
Twenty minutes passed.
Twenty agonizing, humiliating minutes.
And then, finally, she arrived.
My wife, fresh from her own personal gastrointestinal war, now forced to rescue me from mine.
She did not look surprised and she did not look pleased.
🎶 “This is my final fit, my final bellyache…”
She did not even sigh.
She simply took Wilco’s leash, and told me that the world didn’t need to hear my grunts of pain.
Wilco, who had been given 20 full minutes to reflect on her inability to fetch,
did not seem to care about the outcome of the match.
She had already moved on.
Meanwhile, I stood there, quad in ruins, pride obliterated, completely and utterly defeated.
The Final Score
- Wilco: Undefeated.
- Elderly woman with a cane: Undefeated.
- My wife: Undefeated.
- Me: Completely and utterly destroyed.
🎶 “No alarms and no surprises, please…”
VI. The Fool’s Gambit – ‘Wrap It and Go’ or ‘Train the Left Foot Instead?’
(Because this is the exact kind of reckless, denial-fueled optimism that leads to even worse decisions.)
The Aftermath: A Man in Denial
I made it home.
Through sheer stubbornness, public humiliation, and a wife who is now used to these kinds of scenarios, I had been extracted.
But as I limped through the front door, collapsed onto the couch, and Wilco immediately ran off to do something deranged elsewhere, something started happening.
Something dangerous.
A thought entered my head.
Not a smart thought.
Not a productive thought.
A thought so fundamentally stupid that only a man in full denial of reality could even consider it.
🎶 “Please don’t put your life in the hands / of a rock and roll band…”
The thought was this:
“Maybe I can still play.”
Option 1: The Classic Footballer’s Lie – ‘Wrap It and Go’
This was the first plan.
The oldest trick in the book.
The delusion that has ended careers.
I pulled out the athletic tape.
I grabbed the compression sleeve.
I found the diclofenac cream.
I sat there, massaging my wrecked quad, fully convincing myself that if I just wrapped it tight enough, I could be back on the pitch within a couple of days.
🎶 “Take that look from off your face…”
This was footballer logic.
- Injury? Just ice it.
- Pain? Just ignore it.
- Full-blown muscular detachment? Just tape it back together.
For a brief moment, I actually believed it.
I could hear the internal commentary.
I could see the redemption arc.
I could already picture myself back in the mud, proving the haters wrong.
And then I stood up.
🔥 Immediate, catastrophic pain.
My leg nearly gave out again.
My quad threatened to secede from my body entirely.
My knee, which had been doing its best to hold things together, basically said, “Fuck this, I’m out.”**
‘Wrap it and go’ was officially dead.
Option 2: The Even Worse Idea – ‘Train the Left Foot Instead’
🎶 “You ain’t ever gonna burn my heart out…”
Now, at this point, a rational person would say:
“Okay. This injury is bad. I should rest. Maybe see a doctor. Take some time off.”
But I am not a rational person.
Instead, my brain pivoted to a backup plan.
“Fine. I’ll just train my left foot.”
The logic was flawless.
- My right quad was destroyed.
- My left leg was still functional.
- Therefore, I could just switch feet and continue playing.
This was, of course, not how physiology works.
🎶 “So Sally can wait…”
I sat there, genuinely considering this plan, as if I hadn’t just destroyed my body 30 minutes ago.
The timeline of failure wrote itself.
- Day 3: Light left-footed dribbling. Confidence rising.
- Day 5: First real left-footed shot. Everything seems okay.
- Day 7: Full left-footed strike. Immediate quad explosion. Left leg now also ruined.
- Day 10: Now neither leg works.
- Day 14: I am in a wheelchair. My wife is roasting me. Wilco is still undefeated.
This plan was, in every possible way, a one-way ticket to complete bodily destruction.
And yet, for a full five minutes, I was fully committed to it.
🎶 “But don’t look back in anger, I heard you say…”
The Wife’s Intervention: A Hard No
At this point, my wife re-entered the room.
She took one look at me, sitting there with a full wrap job on my quad, stretching my left leg like some kind of training montage was about to begin, and she asked the most reasonable question imaginable.
💬 Her: “What the fuck are you doing?”*
💬 Me: “I think I’m just going to switch to my left foot.”
💬 Her: “Oh my fucking God.”*
💬 Me: “It makes sense, right? Like, if I just work on my left foot—”
💬 Her: “No.”
💬 Me: “But—”
💬 Her: “No. I’m making dinner but you need to do the salmon”
And just like that, the plan was over.
The Final Acceptance: I Am Out for Weeks
🎶 “But don’t look back in anger, I heard you say…”
Slowly, painfully, I let go of the dream.
- I would not be wrapping it and going.
- I would not be switching to my left foot.
- I would not be playing again for a long, long time.
For the first time all day, I accepted reality.
The injury was real.
The elderly woman with the cane was, in fact, faster than me.
Wilco was still undefeated.
And there was nothing I could do about it.
🎶 “At least not today…”
Final Scoreline
- Wilco: Unbeaten. Still refuses to fetch.
- Elderly woman with a cane: 100% record. Dominated the encounter.
- My wife: Still undefeated. Prevented further damage.
- Me: Absolutely finished. Career-ending injury sustained.
VII. Conclusion: Wilco Is Still Undefeated, and I Have Learned Nothing
The Aftermath: A Quiet Reflection (That Changes Nothing)
I sat there.
Leg wrapped, ice pack in place, a defeated man in linen pants.
Wilco, the alleged “trainee” from this footballing catastrophe, was stretched out across the floor, chewing something she absolutely should not be chewing.
She had not fetched a single ball.
She had not learned any new skills.
She had not suffered any consequences for her actions.
🎶 “What became of the dreams we had?”
Meanwhile, I had suffered immensely.
- Physically? Wrecked.
- Emotionally? Shattered.
- Publicly? Humiliated beyond words.
This was, by every conceivable metric, a defeat.
But as I sat there, letting it all sink in, something else started to form in the back of my mind.
Something dangerous.
Something reckless.
Something that guaranteed this exact scenario would repeat itself in the future.
🎶 “Oh, what became of forever?”
That thought was this:
“I bet I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
Wilco’s Final Victory: A Dog Who Refuses to Lose
Wilco trotted over.
For a brief, fleeting moment, I thought she might show some sympathy.
Instead, she climbed up onto the couch, flopped onto my injured leg, and fell asleep.
Pain shot through my entire body.
Wilco stretched out.
Wilco sighed.
Wilco was… content.
She had won.
She had won without even trying.
She had not fetched.
She had not retrieved.
She had not even recognized that a training session had taken place.
But she had successfully destroyed my ability to play football for at least a month… even though I’ll inevitably be back at it in three days.
A true tactical masterclass.
Final Scoreline (Confirmed by VAR)
- Wilco: Undefeated. Still refuses to fetch. Tactically outmaneuvered me at every turn.
- Elderly woman with a cane: Elite-level stamina. Showed more composure than I did.
- My wife: Prevented me from switching to my left foot and ruining my entire existence.
- Me: Finished. Out for weeks (days really). Career likely over.
🎶 “We’ll never know, we’ll never know…”
Lessons Learned (Or Not)
❌ Do not attempt to play 90 minutes of football in a swamp while wearing untied winter boots and linen pants.
❌ Do not try to teach a four-month-old puppy to fetch when she fundamentally does not believe in the concept – I mean ontologically speaking.
❌ Do not take 30 full-powered shots while actively speed-walking around the park.
❌ Do not ignore warning signs from your own quadriceps.
❌ Do not assume an elderly woman with a cane won’t outpace you in the final stretch.
✅ Do assume that Wilco will, in every possible way, defeat you.
✅ Do accept that, at some point, you will do this all again.
🎶 “What became of the likely lads?”
Final Thought: We All Know This Isn’t Over
Let’s be real.
In two weeks, I will start feeling a little better.
In three weeks, I will start thinking about taking a few easy shots.
In four weeks, I will convince myself that my left foot is actually a viable option.
By week five, I will be right back in the mud.
Check that, I will be right back in the mud in three days.
And Wilco?
She still won’t fetch.
She will still pounce, growl, and shake the ball like she’s hunting prey.
And, inevitably, I will end up right back here.
🎵 Cue: The sound of my wife sighing in advance.
–Kevin Duska, Calgary, AB. March 1, 2025