One ball man

Doogie Howser, my physical therapist, is one sadistic SOB.

I arrive scant seconds before my appointment. Huffing, puffing, wheezing, spitting out blood I crumple on the front desk trying to muster enough strength to sign my name before the clock ticks past 2:30. I hate being late, so I roared through the streets like Tony Stewart navigating a field of rookies at Talladega Motor Speedway (oh yeah, that's right, I just pulled out a NASCAR reference), parked the car in the middle of the parking lot not caring if I blocked some blue hair from making it to the early bird dinner at Hometown Buffet after their appointment at the heart doctor, I wasn't going to let Doogie Howser have the satisfaction of watching me stroll into his office late. I hurdle a hedge like I'm a steeplechase pony and boll through a grazing pack of seniors, cutting around them like I'm LaDanian Tomlinson on a touchdown run, not minding the series of firecracker pops shooting through my left ankle. As I saw it, Doogie will work on the wheel anyway. He'll make it all better as long as I ain't late.

"He's not in yet," said the overly cheery receptionist. She smiles showing more teeth than her mouth can contain. "You'll have to give him a bad time about beating him into the office."

I figure she's giving me carte blanche to let Doogie have it without repercussions. Surely, she'll have my back if I give him a ration of shit.

"Look who decided to show," I say when Doogie finally wanders in. I figure it took him a long time to chain up his bicycle. That could explain his tardiness.

"Ha! You're a funny guy, meat. Let's see how funny you are after five minutes on the bike."

"Is that all you got? Five minutes, doc, I can do with two ankles taped together."

"Funny, you should mention that," he pulls out a roll of duct tape the size of an old west-wagon wheel and then motions for me to sit on the stationary bike. He tapes my ankles together, smiles like he enjoys pulling the wings off of flies, and motions with his hands for me to start pedaling. "How high of a resistance does this thing go? Nine? That's sounds perfect. This will help something, I'm sure (but I don't know what), so keep going until I tell you to stop."

I go until my quad muscles are jiggling lumps of jello and sweat pools in my butt crack leaving me with a waterlogged pair of jockey shorts and a horrendous sweat stripe along my back side. All the while, I'm waiting for overly cheery receptionist to step in a say, "Hey, Doogie, ain't that enough?" There's nothing. That teaches me I can't trust overly cheer receptionists. They're just as evil as pre-pubescent doctors.

Finally, he has mercy on me (or his day was almost over, not sure which one) and tells me to step on this trampoline, of course balancing on the bad ankle. Once I'm semi-balanced he chucks a ball the size of a classroom globe at my junk and my hands get down just fast enough to deflect it away. He says the point is for me to remain balanced on my sissy ankle as he heaves this ball in my general direction, and I'm supposed to catch it. Doogie says he thinks this helps my range of motion - great, he thinks it helps - but I think this exercise is more physical therapy entertainment for the "doc." The ball is never thrown at me, and every time I have to lunge for his pass or risk the ball going through the window and Dr. Howser tacking the cost onto my bill. You talk pain, looking at the bill is more painful than what I did to the ankle to land in this torture chamber.

"C'mon meat, you gotta catch it, and stay balanced."

"Give me something I can catch, munchkin."

He didn't take too kindly to my attitude and again whaled a throw right at the jewels. I catch the shot but go sprawling into the skeletal remains of likely the last person who talked back to Doogie.

"OK, let's strengthen your toes, meat."

"Doc, it ain't my toes that need work. It's the shredded strands in my ankle that need fixing."

"Pipe down, meat, or I'll stick you back on the bike. Now, grab this towel with your toes and pull the end towards the foot. Do that 50 times and then you can go."

I give it a go until my toes feel like their strong enough to crack open beer cans, bring the beer to my mouth and when done crush it against my forehead. They feel stronger than my biceps. When father-in-law needs a hand lifting stuff I'll use my toes to do the heavy business. I'll save my string bean arms for bigger projects, like lifting my new flat-screen plasma TV on to the wall (when Wife comes to her senses and realizes our lives are unfulfilled without such a necessity).

"Good work, meat. And to whet your appetite for your next visit, next time we'll have you balance on a three-inch wide beam 70 feet up while I shoot tennis balls at your gonads. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful, doc. Why don't you also take a sledge hammer to it as a stress test?"

"Great idea, meat. I'll consider that."