sprained thumb

There is nothing beautiful about a swollen, throbbing sprained thumb.

I ran to volleyball at the Jewish Community Center on 16th and Q streets NW this evening. The air was crisp, perfect running weather, and I was bouncing to Gia Farrell’s “Come hit me up” blaring on the iPod and looking forward to seeing my goofy and hilarious teammates.

Our pre-match cheer is “supposedly” because Gary said it one day last year and we all exploded with laughter. I remember laughing; I don’t remember why he said it or why it was funny. Gary plays with goggles because he severed his eye over the summer when a canister exploded in the laboratory he works in and he was lucky he didn’t go blind. He was rushed to the hospital and had emergency eye surgery. We all visited him after work hours. When we play, he is the one who is a bit more cautious about getting hit with the ball.

Tonight a few people were out of town, so we played with five. We cheered “supposedly” and shortly thereafter the stocky player who slammed a few sets straight down to the floor like a bullet hit an ace serve at my chest. I decided to stop it with my thumb. A word of advice: Don’t do that. It hurts. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I waved everyone off, until the next serve, which came to me again and I volleyed it with my foot to the setter. I walked off the court, popped two Advil and watched my thumb grow.

It will be fine, and really, who needs a thumb? I’m sure I’ll find out how often you use your thumb in the next few days. Supposedly.


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