This is the first of three installments covering what led up to, what motivated me, and the outcome of an event I’m participating in.



We often do things for ourselves to give us feelings of self-worth. “Warm and fuzzys” are nice even if we have to administer them ourselves. These mental pick-me-ups frequently provide the motivation to keep trudging forward toward our goals. Sometimes they provide the necessary impetus just to endure. As an amputee, over the years I’ve had to set the bar at varying heights just to keep me from feeling “less than.” In twelve days the bar has been raised in order to feel “more than;” not just for me, but for others as well.

Having a part of your body removed when you’re in the prime of your life initially is a difficult concept to wrap your brain around. There are two approaches one can take. You can lament the loss of the limb; mentally prepare yourself for spending the rest of your days as an amputee, and move forward cautiously and with care, tackling each hurdle as they come. Or, you can jump into the deep end of the pool not knowing how to swim, catching as catch can, and never mourning your loss. While the latter may sound gallant and admirable, it is not prudent; there can be repercussions. They may not rear their collective ugly head for months, sometimes years, but they will come back to bite you on the ass. Needless to say, this was the cure all of my ills I chose.

After I regained consciousness from the coma injuries from my motorcycle accident induced, I learned of the loss of my left leg.

Surprise! Guess what? Your life is now irrevocably altered. No one will ever look at you the same way again. Strangers will forever stare at you wherever you go. If you had a big ego, kiss it good-by. You will never do anything the way you did it prior. Have a nice life.

I refused to acknowledge any of those things my mind was trying desperately to tell me. I immediately requested that I be given a set of five pound dumbbells, and a set of two pound dumbbells, so I could begin my rehabilitation right away, casts and all. If there was a question how injudicious the first request was, the second gave undeniable support. “I’d also like a beer please” I asked the nurse. Wisely, I didn’t get either until I was stable (physically, not so much mentally) and moved from the ICU. My projected release date was for after the first of the year, over three months away. I rejected such a notion. I made it my business to be out of the hospital as soon as humanly possible; but first I had to learn how to get out of bed.

After a rigorous and ambitious physical therapy program, where I’m quite sure at one time or another, I mother-fucked every hospital staff member within earshot; I returned home after twenty-seven days; refusing to be wheeled into my home on a stretcher. I told the paramedics who drove me, if I can’t walk in, I don’t deserve to be here. With the aid of a walker used by the geriatric set, I made my way through the front door.

They said it was a miraculous recovery; my first wife begged to differ. I then set off down the unhappy road to recovery unable to avoid many of the landmines I didn’t see. And if I saw them, I was woefully ill-prepared to sidestep them.

The everyday pain was non-negotiable, so I learned to live with it. Proudly, I avoided taking any prescription medication, yet my cocaine use and alcohol consumption skyrocketed. I couldn’t work, except at getting back to the proverbial “shadow of my former self.” No truer words were ever uttered.

I was fortunate for all the support I received from friend and family, yet I was misguidedly determined to rehabilitate myself in the only way I knew that would allow me to feel a sense of accomplishment; through participation in physical activities.

Before even receiving my first prosthetic limb--and what an emotional ordeal that was!---the timeline for walking unaided was August, ten months away. Got the first limb in March, and with the help of my friend K.C., played nine holes of golf on April 7. What I shot didn’t matter. As I saw it, I was out there “doing it” and that’s what counted. Bring on the Olympic Games!

It would be quite some time before I came down off my disillusional cloud. I got reinforcement from taking care of a newborn on a daily basis. I was forced to do things a normal person wouldn’t have considered just out of sheer necessity. Selfishly, for whatever reason, I needed more to validate myself. I wanted to play softball again. I wanted to play basketball again. What I wanted, and what was best for me became muddled.

Slowly, I returned to the arena of sport. I coached youth basketball from my crutches. A year later, it was youth baseball.

Hey, I can pitch batting practice! I can swing the bat pretty good. I can even play catch to help warm up the players. If the kid throws it where I can’t get it, I’ll make him go it. He’ll start throwing more accurately pretty damn quick! Hey, I think I’ll join a softball team! Now, who’ll have me like this?

But join a team I did. I think I was allowed on as an act of sympathy. Once I was given the opportunity to show I could hit and field (first base or catcher only) with above average ability, the pity ebbed. And who needed pity in the first place!? Certainey not me!! Running the bases was another matter entirely.

Due to my injuries, I was left with limited range of motion in both knees, the left in particular. My patella had been crushed, so a hinge was wired in place. I was no longer able to run one foot in front of the other. I employed an aborted hop-skip method. At least it could get me to first base. It just meant I had to hit the ball farther. At that point, a designated runner was substituted. That mountain climbed, I then received a call from my friend Gregg.

The law firm he worked for in Manhattan put together a team for a local touch football team. One particular Sunday, Gregg called to tell me that the team was a player short, and if I was interested in playing. Without any forethought, I said sure, I’d play.

The next hurdle was basketball. A local Hoop-It-Up Tournament served as the proving ground for this attempt at some sort of return to normalcy. Fueled by this new confidence in what I was physically able to accomplish, I then received an invitation to try out for the Paralympic Standing Volleyball Team.

The tryouts were in Cleveland, Ohio. It would take me away from my job for a week. My employer felt this was an unnecessary leave of absence. Today, if that were to occur, there would be a public outcry. Today, amputees are featured in advertising, amputee event coverage is televised. Back then, I wallowed in obscurity.

I would do something that people would notice what’s possible if you try. I would run in the Chemical Bank 5K Corporate Challenge. I would be a team of one. Maybe then somebody will notice what I can do, because it wasn’t good enough just to be doing for myself…
To be continued