Last Saturday, I woke up, drank my coffee, and began my daily exercise routine. I tried to lift weights, but when I picked them up, I realized something was wrong. I could not grip the weight with my right hand. My left hand was fine, but I had no strength whatsoever in the right. The dumbbell fell right out of my hand.
I was not in pain, but there was definitely something amiss. Later that day, I tried to jot something down on a piece of paper. The writing was indecipherable, just scribbles, as I had almost no control of my right hand.
A family member who’s a doctor suspected it might be a neurological issue. She recommended certain stretches to release the pressure on the nerve. Another friend surmised that it was the onset of carpal tunnel syndrome. In the meantime, I had trouble cutting my food, combing my hair, brushing my teeth, even getting the key in the front door. What was happening to me? Medical mysteries are fun, except when you’re the subject.
The timing of this was not ideal. This was supposed to be an upbeat weekend, as the Mets had survived an elimination Game 5 in the National League Championship Series on Friday night to bring the series back to L.A. for Game 6. I didn’t need this cloud hanging over everything.
On Sunday night, I started to prepare for the game, mentally, emotionally, and physically. I changed into the same clothes I was wearing on the last day of the season, the day the Mets came back to beat the Braves to clinch a playoff spot: a Pete Alonso Florida Gators number 20 road jersey worn over a Keith Hernandez t-shirt. I’ve worn the same things – unwashed – for every game since, a remarkable 13 straight games in October. As a Met fan, this was heaven.
As I sat down with my son to watch the pre-game, I realized I had forgotten something. I opened the drawer and took out the paper towel. The paper towel? Yes, the paper towel. You see, while watching the Game 5 victory, we were eating dinner, specifically delivery from Gino’s. I was holding a paper towel while eating, and, because the Mets were winning, I kept the paper towel in my hand throughout the game. I never let it go.
It worked. After the Mets won, I placed the same paper towel in the kitchen drawer to use during the next game. Yes, it had marinara sauce on it. And don’t tell me you don’t understand.
Perhaps you already see where this is going. During the first inning of Sunday’s Game 6, while the lead-off man was at the plate, the medical mystery was definitively solved. I clutched the paper towel with my right hand, but I had no strength. I couldn’t do it. That’s because I apparently used it all up during Friday night’s game. It seems as if clutching a paper towel for three plus hours will cause some lingering weakness, and potentially permanent neurological issues, with respect to the gripping hand.
Although it was a relief to solve the mystery, at least as to the cause, it was also discouraging. By the end of the third inning, I learned that squeezing the paper towel in the left hand wasn’t nearly as effective, as the Mets were already down by five runs. They fought until the very last out, but never recovered from that deficit. It just wasn’t meant to be.
What are the lessons here?
I’m sure there are some that will mock this affliction, those that would laugh at how difficult it was for me to type these very words because my right hand still isn’t completely right. To that I say sports injuries are never a laughing matter, so shame on you.
To my fellow Met fans, I know you understand, and I’m sorry I couldn’t come through for us in Game 6. I promise you I tried my best, as I’m sure you did. But it was an all-time great run, wasn’t it?
I hope you don’t have lupus.