By Steve Moseley
Some people drive buses, others build locomotives. I fall down.
Yes, I’m rapidly becoming ‘the fall guy’ and evidence supports the designation.
I don’t want to be a fall guy, but it seems the choice is not mine. I am a victim of flawed genetics, you see. The older my father got the more frequent and damaging his falls became.
The most recent proof of my status in the category of Finest Flailing Falls came Thursday in Lincoln at Woods Park. I was there to cover York in state tennis. Taking a tumble was like an added benefit, except in reverse.
The inside corner where two sidewalks meet did not have turf like the rest of the area, but rather was home to a nasty hole … into which I promptly stepped because that’s like, you know, what I do and stuff.
I’m sure those around me considered this a spectacular plunge to earth from a height of 6 feet and 4 inches.
Today (Friday morning) I find myself: (1) doing anything to avoid even one cough (ribs), (2) busily growing a big patch of brand new skin (right knee) and (3) treating a reinjured body part (left shoulder’s now-resprained rotator cuff) with ibuprofen by the handful.
Thanks from me to the three Lexington tennis players who peeled me from the concrete and helped me to stand up again, and to the over concerned but wonderful lady who came a runnin’ to check me out.
She, unlike yours truly, stepped in zero holes.
This is far from the first time I’ve flopped both privately and very publically.
A few years ago while vacationing with friends in Kennebunk, Maine, I was done in by some stairs onto the patio. The steps were not appropriate to my size 14 shoes and down I went. A $1500 lens lay about me in several pieces after that one.
Then came the cross country meet at the Aurora Country Club a few years back. That time the left side of my right foot barely caught the sidewalk, which was much higher than the adjacent ground. That time tiny Liesl Lucas was there, gamely offering to help me up. I declined her kind offer lest there be two of us on the limp instead of just one.
I wasn’t deceased. Camera was.
About this time the insurance company that covers my photo gear apparently decided it had seen enough. In one letter from those folks my annual premium on that coverage doubled and a $500 deductible was inserted where, before, there had been none.
Scattered between the Big 3, which is those two and Thursday’s tumble there have been others which, through no lack of trying on my part, ended less ignominiously.
This time at least the camera seems to have survived, albeit with lacerations I fear may never heal.
Tuesday I gave blood at the City Auditorium again. I’m a regular. Knowing my history, for years now I’ve insisted the itty-bitty, gray-haired lady volunteer whose duty is to ‘help’ me to the sandwich table swear on her grandkids that, should I begin to fall, she will abandon me to my fate and flee for her life.
So the story about me and falling down is a sad one (at least to me, probably funny to everyone else). Worse, obviously it’s not yet over.
The one and only good thing about this latest nosedive? At least, in the presence of all those kids, I valiantly fought back my natural inclination in such situations to beller out a string of profanity on the way to crash landing on the concrete.
Not that I can remember anyway. Only those three Minuteman runners (and about 20 other people standing around) know for sure whether I did or didn’t and I’m not about to ask.