Listen, I know you’ve been through a lot. I know I’ve asked for support more times than I care to admit. And you’ve always been there working, and I appreciate that. We’ve played countless hours of noonball (that’s 12-1:30) every single day. Through college, then summertime, then tournaments on weekends. We’ve twisted hundreds of thousands of times trying to hit homeruns. You were called to do this every time during practice, league games and even more weekend tournaments. From Campos de Suenos to Fruitland. You’ve spent cumulative years on the baseball diamond. In batting cages.
Then there’s the backyard basketball games, asphalt, dirt courts, and summertime you’d take a beating jumping off walls, rocks, climbing mountains, sprinting down hill at insane speeds and countless other reckless activities.
I remember when we tore your ACL. That pain felt like the end. That wobble felt like the end. When the Doctor asked if I was going to continue to play, there was no question that I wasn’t done. We fixed you back up. We did the rehab. You had more strength than the specialist was expecting. You’ve never been quite the same, but still you performed when asked. I put an extra 40 pounds on top of you, and you still managed to perform at a decent level. You showed that Apache’s can play basketball with these Missourians.
But this fight isn’t over. There is no peace treaty in this war. I still expect you to be there when I need you. I know you’re sore, you’re aching and swollen. Every big movement you yell to move it a little slower. But I still refuse. Because I’m not 40 years old (yet) and I refuse to lie down my weapons to retire gently. You have been my faithful friend in battle. Blood has been shed and cartilage has been lost.
I only ask that you battle on as long as I do.
It’s 2012. There’s a new league that plays double headers and even some basketball on the weekends.
Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more