I want to tell you something. And this isn’t an excuse, because when someone tells the truth it isn’t an excuse.
– Boxing trainer John Scully
I kept thinking about three Collingwood footballers during the drive to Wynnum on Brisbane’s bay side. That isn’t surprising, given how much I think about football. That it was Collingwood was surprising. I like Collingwood but they’re not my first choice of footballers to think about.
I was thinking about three significant moments in recent history when Dane Beams, Simon Prestigiacomo and Mark Richardson ruled themselves out of a grand final due to injury.
Back in September 2002, Richardson knocked on Mick Malthouse’s door and said he’d strained a quad muscle during the last training session before the grand final and wouldn’t be right for Saturday.
At the time, Malthouse said Richardson committed the ultimate sacrifice for his teammates and club.
‘He just didn’t believe he could justify his position, so it was a very, very brave act,’ Malthouse said. ‘It was typical of a bloke who I regard as a consummate team man.’
Richardson had been at Collingwood for twelve years and hadn’t played in a final. He was a chance to be selected to play.
‘He elected to put the team first,’ Malthouse said. ‘I think it’s an outstanding gesture from Mark Richardson.’
In 2010 Prestigiacomo knocked on Malthouse’s door and said he wasn’t right to play in the grand final due to a groin injury. The same injury forced the defender from the grand final replay. Prestigiacomo retired at season’s end.
Last year, Dane Beams became the latest player to blame injury for pulling out of a grand final. Beams had been playing with a groin strain for a month and no longer wanted to be a liability. He too sought out Malthouse and delivered the grim news.
Those three men aren’t the only footballers to rule themselves out of a grand final due to injury. It is a selfless act, putting the team and club first. It also shows their ability to listen to the body instead of ignoring it.
They pulled out, quitting for one important game and Malthouse praised for it.
Back in 1991 I hurt my shoulder in the final home and away game while playing hack football in Rockhampton. The club physio, Jeff, said the AC joint was ruptured and prescribed a series of exercises to ensure I could play late in September.
I did what Jeff suggested but the injury didn’t improve. Pain was constant. One afternoon at uni, a lecturer called Laurie shook his head at my pain.
‘Have you seen a doctor,’ he said.
I hadn’t. I told him about the finals.
‘You young blokes amaze me,’ Laurie said. ‘You all think you’re going to play for Australia, but you won’t if you don’t get your shoulder checked out. Do you think Mal Meninga gets his injuries checked?’
Later that day I made an appointment to see the campus doctor. It was ten days since I’d been injured. It took ten seconds for the doc to diagnose the injury, that’s a broken clavicle, and another ten seconds to give me a sling.
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘But your arm should’ve been in a sling immediately.’ He wrote a referral. ‘Get an X-ray.’
I asked him about football. The doc shook his head. ‘Play if you want surgery,’ he said.
After explaining the ten day delay, the doc seemed surprised. He knew the physio. ‘That doesn’t sound like Jeff,’ he said.
I fronted for the final training session before the grand final still wearing the sling and didn’t train. I hadn’t run for three weeks. I could barely move the arm but the team manager wanted to gift me a spot in the grand final side.
‘Do you think you can play,’ he said.
I couldn’t roll over in bed without pain. As much as I wanted to there was no way I could play. I would’ve been a liability.
‘My collar bone is broken,’ I said, amazed he asked while my arm was in a sling.
‘Okay, so you’re out then.’ He grimaced at me, like I was letting the team down.
I was only twenty when I walked away from the team manager. Pulling out of the grand final was the right thing to do for myself and the team. At the time I wouldn’t have believed it, but I never got another chance to play in a grand final.
I was 41 when I drove to Wynnum for the Twilight Bay Run. That should be a significant number in terms of experience and the intelligence age should offer. The event, in its debut year, would end Brisbane’s Running Festival. Having run well at the Gold Coast and Brisbane, I was hoping for a good time.
As I parked the car I couldn’t shake those thoughts of men pulling out of grand finals due to injury. When I got out from the car my left quad didn’t feel right. It hadn’t felt right for weeks, not a tear, just tight and tired.
During the build up to the half marathon I had regular massage. Lexi found the spot and found pain. The day before the race she gave me another massage. I asked her to go easy. Easy hurt and she shook her head.
‘You’re not in the same condition you were before the Gold Coast,’ she said.
Later that afternoon, walking out to the garage I could still feel discomfort and complained to Kristine.
‘You don’t have to run,’ she said. ‘Pull out if you have to.’
Complaining seemed pointless given my answer, I’ll be right, and I applied ice. Kristine nodded slowly at me. On race day, my mate Paul (the Melbourne variety) called. I complained to him about the quad too.
‘Why don’t you pull out,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to do it.’
I didn’t pull out, for a few reasons. I’d already paid the fee, $80 for the privilege of running. Last year I ran three official half marathons and wanted to do the same this year. The quad wasn’t torn either. It felt like a minor strain but in the last eleven days I’d run 75 kilometres, getting through repeated distances of 13 and 18 kilometres.
Pulling up sore after a long run was standard. I figured my fitness base and experience would get me through.
Andy sent a text, Mate good luck it’s a hot windy cunt of a day for a run. Run hard don’t leave anything in the tank.
I appreciated the sentiment. Andy ran the full marathon at the Gold Coast earlier this year so he knows all about leaving nothing in the tank. That’s what I wanted to do but as I walked to the race precinct the quad was nagging away. For the first time in a year I started worrying about finishing a run, unable to shake the unease or find positive words to remind me I’d done this before, so get it over with.
The race, four laps of a route along Wynnum’s foreshore, started a 6pm. The first five kilometres were good, only 21 minutes. I slowed at the 7k aid station to grab a cup of water, drinking some and pouring the rest over my head. When I picked up the pace, my quad didn’t want to work.
By now I figured it was strained. The outside of my leg feel heavy and fatigued. I pressed on, trying to ignore the dead sensation in my quad and turned at the halfway mark at 47 minutes, about two minutes outside where I wanted to be which wasn’t too bad.
It’d be a tough run home.
Pushing into the wind, the strain got worse. The muscle felt like it was about to cramp. I tried rubbing while running and it didn’t help.
For the first time in a half marathon I had to stop and walk. I didn’t stretch the muscle for fear it’d tear. At the 12k aid station I drank a cup of water and started to run.
The pace was slow. I was disgusted. My thoughts were dragged back to three Collingwood footballers who acted sensibly and withdrew from grand final.
I couldn’t focus on anything but the injury. Normally when I run I think of boxing or football, something confrontational. I imagine games where North Melbourne win the premiership or think about what would happen if Mike Tyson fought Sonny Liston.
I usually listen to AC/DC, heavy driving music with suggestive lyrics.
When the man carrying 1.40 balloons ran past me there was nothing I could do about it so I stopped again and walked, feeling miserable and stupid. It was useless massaging the muscle but I did it anyway then started running again.
I was defeated after fifteen kilometres. The dead sensation in my quad was spreading down the outside of my leg, into the calf. My knee ached, the patella tendon, so I walked again, drinking Powerade and water. I took a good break, about two minutes, and stretched the quad muscle, sighing at the pain.
Why am I doing this, I though. This is fucking stupid. You knew this would happen so why did you do it?
At the beginning of the last lap I was at the race precinct. Quitting seemed the best option. Continuing was futile if I had to keep walking. Looking across the park, people were walking or sitting down. I envied their lack of motion. All I had to do was walk off the track, get my bag and go. All I had to do was quit.
I looked away from the crowd, the lights, the people relaxing and ran on. The shame of telling people I quit horrified the reptilian part of my brain and drove me forward.
I didn’t want that shame. Besides, bullies don’t like being bullied. Earlier this year in a Ramble I critiqued people who entered a half marathon and couldn’t finish, suggesting their failure was poor preparation, which is how they got injured.
If they carried an injury into a race, that was worse.
Now it was happening to me, take that you fucking bully, I thought. I had mocked the unfortunates when it had never happened to me. Now I knew and I was mocking myself.
The last five kilometres were a slow crawl. I couldn’t get above a jog but I didn’t stop. When I crossed the line the clock read 1:58, two minutes short of two hours and totally disappointing.
The last ten kilometres took seventy one minutes.
I’ve never run that badly over a long distance before, not even in training, not unless I carried an injury into the run…
The aftermath
In the 1978 grand final, Malcolm Blight was on fire during the first quarter, gathering five possessions in those frantic first minutes. As Blight ran across the MCG’s centre wicket he slipped on the hard surface, tearing his groin muscle and spent the rest of the match on the bench. North Melbourne lost by three goals.
Blight had a standout year in 1978, kicking 77 goals and winning the Brownlow medal. Had he not got injured, history might be different. He might’ve kicked three goals or set up three.
During his career Blight played 22 finals. Years after the 1978 grand final he was circumspect when asked about the groin injury.
‘I played a lot of finals,’ Blight said. ‘I was bound to get injured in one.’
Every sportsperson experiences injury. I’ve dealt with a series of calf tears and strains in recent years. The Twilight Bay run was the sixth half marathon I completed, not a huge number but more than I thought I’d do three years ago.
As Andy once said, a half marathon is not to be taken lightly, and given the unfortunate laws of probability, I was bound to be affected by injury in one.
After gathering the medal and retrieving my bag, I sent a text to a few people: Did the first five in 21. Strained my left quad about seven k. Had to stop three times. Took 1:58. Abject failure.
I hobbled away from the precinct, dejected at my time and my quad. I was hoping to attract some sympathy with the text, which wasn’t exactly truthful. Adam was the first to offer cheer: Nope u finished even though u were injured. Victory.
Walking along the foreshore I watched other runners struggle through the last five kilometres. My dreadful run was over. Those on the track had a long way to go. No matter how bad I was feeling they were feeling worse. I should’ve offered encouragement.
Instead, I watched them silently, understanding their distress and determination. It would’ve been easy to say come on, keep pushing, not long to go but bitterness had taken over my emotions. I hated what I had just done and felt ashamed at stopping, at wanting to quit.
The mobile beeped. Kristine’s text was more sympathy and closer to the truth. You ran with the strain, oh no. Abject failure nothing! You finished injured. Legend.
Walking up the hill to the car park, in need of more sympathy I called Paul (the Melbourne variety). I wouldn’t get it.
‘You told me you could feel it walking,’ he said. ‘You should’ve pulled out.’
‘I thought I was fit enough,’ I said. ‘I’ve done this before.’
‘Yeah but you knew you were injured,’ he said. ‘Why do it and why not stop.’
‘I didn’t want to tell people I quit,’ I said.
He scoffed at that bullshit. ‘You didn’t have to do it. I told you to pull out.’ Paul offered other advice too, focusing on my inability to listen to my body. ‘You knew,’ he said. ‘And you still did it.’
Paul was right. My run, in terms of Australian sport, was as insignificant as it gets. It wasn’t an AFL grand final or test match. I’ve barely achieved anything in sport. If I pulled out no one would’ve cared. It might’ve burned in my psyche for a while but it’d be quickly forgotten.
When I got to the car I was thinking about another man named Paul, who lives in Brisbane. Back in July, Paul (the Brisbane variety) spent $80 to enter the Brisbane half marathon. Two weeks before the run he injured a calf muscle and pulled out. At the time I told him it was the right thing to do.
‘Don’t jeopardise your next half marathon,’ I said.
The phone beeped when I started the car. The text from Andy, was reassuring: Mate don’t be too concerned. It’s a rough time but you had a few things going against you. Go home watch the footy and have a beer. I reckon you need a lot of things to go right to run a good time anyway.
At home, drinking beer, I watched Hawthorn squeak home against Adelaide in the preliminary final. When I went to bed I lay awake for a while, thinking about the run and what went wrong.
By Sunday, twenty-four hours after the run, Kristine was sick of the complaints. She mentioned obsession and perfection. I showed her the red patch on my quad, minor bleeding in the muscle, as proof. Kristine shook her head.
‘Good work Wato,’ she said.
The strain was a strange one. I could feel it walking and going downstairs. Coming upstairs didn’t hurt. To my uninformed mind it didn’t make sense. Kristine provided the analysis.
I hurt the vastus lateralis, which is the muscle that runs down the outside of the leg. Its primary function is to extend the lower leg, which is why it hurt walking downstairs. The muscle eventually forms part of the patella tendon, which explained the pain in my knee.
Ice, anti-inflammatory pills and sport rub assisted recovery. I spent hours pondering the reasons for my poor performance. I couldn’t stop the thoughts, lying awake at night, going over a series of key points:
– Did I take the run too lightly
– Was my training adequate, did I run enough kilometres
– Why did I run when Lexi said I wasn’t in shape
– Why did I run with a muscle I thought was strained
– Was I just unprepared for the run
– Was my quad really strained or was I imagining it
– Should I have quit
Perversely, I kept coming up with the same series of answers
– I declared myself fit enough to run
– My training should’ve been adequate
– Sure, I had to use a treadmill in training but I still used it
– I was stupid to run
– I should’ve quit
– I took the half marathon too lightly
Two days after the run Kristine wouldn’t talk about it anymore. No, she said when I tried to engage her again. I was left to the voices inside my head, which told me the time at Wynnum was 24 minutes outside my best time. The voices said it was a shocking run.
All I wanted to do was talk about injury, but that’s just an excuse. The voices said the statistics don’t lie and the overarching message from those voices was stupidity.
No matter how old we get, simple lessons we’ve already learned often need to be re-learned. At 20 I pulled out of a grand final due to injury. Aged 41, I assured Paul (the Brisbane variety) he’d done the right thing in pulling out of the Brisbane half marathon.
The last time I ran with a strained muscle I tore a calf and that injury set me back eighteen months. Kristine and Paul told me not to run at Wynnum. I ignored every key point indicator of sport and the advice of those around. I was stupid and lucky to finish.
The run became the toughest thing I have ever done in sport but in the days afterward I wasn’t proud of that. The pathetic, self-serving despair I felt could’ve been avoided if I’d done the smart thing and pulled out.
A week after the run I visited my parents and didn’t mention it. During the drive home, Kristine verbalised her observations.
‘I’m proud of you that you didn’t mention the run,’ she said. It indicated to her that I was letting it go. It indicated to me that she wouldn’t entertain another conversation about it. I didn’t want to talk about it either, because all I’d been doing was squawking excuses.
My run at Wynnum was manifestly flawed. The injury wasn’t the sole reason, it’s just a neat excuse. The real reason is pig-headed alpha male stupidity, or the belief that at 41 I was still an alpha male, which turned into wonderment if I ever was one.
My head, on the day of the run, said I was an alpha male. My body said otherwise and I ignored it. I went into the run thinking about three Collingwood footballers who pulled out of grand finals due to injury. Those men are more alpha male than I ever was and they had the decency not to break down when it counted most.
Ego is a great leveller. So is narcissism. They’re both intoxicating emotions, but all they do is play mind games. When the going gets tough, ego wants to quit, just remember the past, it begs. And a woman once told me narcissism is a terrible fate.
A stupid mind is bereft of ideas and incapable of creating intelligent ones. Stupidity gets a lot of people into difficult situations. An old cliché suggests not putting yourself in a situation you can’t control. When you find yourself in a situation you can’t control, you need a great excuse.
There is no better excuse than finding blame.
Did I tell you about my injury…
