Yesterday Deadspin encouraged readers to send in their own intramural sports 'horror stories' for one reason or another. Reading a couple of the submissions caused me to recall my own intramural-related injury.
So here is my intramural sports horror story, as I recall it:
"Dude, what the fuck are you doing?"
"Trying to get this fly out of here," I responded, agitated, as I thrust my left arm into the air towards what appeared to be a fly directly in my left line of vision.
"What fly?"
"This fucking fly right here," I growled back, almost incredulous that he was asking for specifics.
"There's no fly there man," my friend Conor replied, looking over my left shoulder.
As soon as he said that my stomach sunk, and I got that unpleasant feeling that my large intestine had to be emptied immediately.
I quickly surmised that it was not a fly fluttering around my head, but rather something in my own eye, which had just been jabbed violently minutes earlier in an intramural basketball battle.
It was my sophomore year at the University of Pittsburgh and I was part of a pretty solid intramural squad; 'The Coozers', I believe. Intramural ball is taken somewhat seriously at Pitt, especially by the more competitive teams. Over 100 teams register annually and many compete pretty hard for the title, which is commemorated by a t-shirt or something. My team, which was formed my freshman year, was undefeated at this point in the season and had a real shot at that t-shirt.
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| Trees Hall image from Wikipedia |
It was late in the first half when I went up for what I have come to call 'the rebound I wish I didn't jump for.'
It was almost simultaneous; I felt my fingers making contact with the ball just as I felt someone else's fingers making contact with my left eye. I came down from my six inches of elevation and doubled down immediately. The pain was immense and caused me to momentarily forget that I was involved in an organized activity as I stumbled to the sideline. I signaled for a sub and made my way across the court, out of the gym, down some steps and to the bathroom, while holding my hand over my eye like it was going to fall out.
I couldn't open the eye for what seemed like three hours but was probably closer to twenty minutes. Finally, with the help of some cold water, the eye was open, and there was something that looked like a fly floating around in the middle of it.
"Are you alright," Conor questioned, concerned after watching me swat at an invisible fly.
"Yeah I'm cool," I responded, although inside all I was thinking was: HOLY SHIT WHAT"S WRONG WITH MY EYE??
I informed Conor that I was going to sit the rest of the game out, and headed back to my room. I spent the entire night obsessing over the eye, harboring some irrational fear that I was going to go blind.
The following day I went to the eye doctor, which is one of my least favorite places on earth. I don't like people poking and prodding at my eyeballs, but it had to be done. It only took me vomiting in the procedure chair with a suction-cup microscope stuck to my eye for them to tell me that I had what the people in the industry refer to as a 'floater.'
A floater, I learned, is basically a deposit in the otherwise translucent area of the eye, or a black dot in the middle of my eye sight. Obviously unhappy about my new diagnosis of myodesopsia, or the perception of floaters, the doctor looked to ease my anxiety.
"It will settle over time," he told me. "Eventually it will slide under your lower eyelid and you won't be able to see it anymore."
I'm still waiting for that day when I no longer see it, but it has become less noticeable and obtrusive. Now I only see it when I look sharply out of the corner of my left eye, when it's really sunny out, when I look up at lights, when rooms are very well-light, when I'm playing video games, when I roll my eyes, and basically any other time where there is more light than dark. Movie theaters are good. Hooray for improvement!
That's my intramural horror story. Now if you'll excuse me I have to go kill this fly.
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