Dear other people with no lives: I would like to thank you all for your kind messages of support and enquiries as to the state of my health since my bike accident in March. Normally I’d write to you individually, but the sheer volume of messages and the fact that the act of typing leaves me winded at this point in my recovery necessitate this class-action thank you.
Special thanks to all those at CBS, Golf Magazine, the PGA of America, the Golf Channel and NBC, all of whom have been very kind. And yes, thank you even to that fat bastard Maltbie, who, on the air at Bay Hill suggested a collection to buy me training wheels. Like training wheels are expensive enough to require a collection? If he really cared, he’d have splurged and bought them himself.
As for the accident itself, suffice it to say that it would be less painful to go back to the scene, build bleachers, invite all my ghoulish friends, and be hit by the trailer again rather than describe it one more time. Mind you, it would be nice if there were video of it so Kostis could telestrate it in slow motion — you know, the yardage I covered, my ball position, whether I hooked or faded, what kind of bounce I got, etc.
Taking into consideration that I am an alcoholic and addicted to narcotics, there is no place scarier for me than the ER. I decided long ago that there would be no more painkillers for me, but the first word I managed to say after impact was, “Morphine.” I was writhing by the side of the road, unable to breathe, when a lady who I assume was nearby appeared like an angel and took my hand in hers, rubbed it, and asked me questions. As I write, I have yet to find her, but I will. I couldn’t talk, but I did listen, and I remember her voice. I heard the ambulance coming, and soon several burly paramedics were strapping me to a board, talking loudly about a chest injury.
The first face I remember seeing in triage was that of She Who Must Be Obeyed, and then the upside-down tears of my nine-year-old angel, Erin. At that point I decided that Daddy had to be braver. Now able to speak at a rate of about one word every five seconds, I told them I…loved…them…and…I…was… going…to…have a hole punched through my left tit? When a lung has been punctured, a tube has to be inserted into the chest cavity to suck out the air and reestablish the vacuum, but medics have to be careful not to use anything sharp, so they punch a hole in you with the medical equivalent of a knitting needle. F— the addiction — more morphine please.
Four days later, severely under the influence, I sucked enough of myself in to talk myself out, and I went home to my recliner. No prescription — this announcer would tough it out. Four hours later, I was like a goldfish in a dry bowl, but refusing narcotics. My psychiatrist talked me off this ledge by pointing out that it would be better to take a drug that nearly killed me than to stop breathing, which would definitely kill me.
A few days later, with the help of a spirometer, a device that measures the amount of air your lungs can hold, I am making progress, so I cut down on the painkillers. Four hours later, I’m Nemo again. Back on the drugs — this is going to take a while, like 4 to 6 weeks, in fact. I haven’t farted (voluntarily) in ten days, I can’t cough, a sneeze would be fatal, and I can’t even laugh, so I was lucky to survive the coverage of Eliot Spitzer. My daughter has to open the refrigerator for me, I have BlackBerry thumbs, and all four of my dogs, including the fat beagle, trample all over me. But wild beagles will not keep me from the Masters. I’m alive, and it didn’t have to be that way. So thank you, every one of you, for your messages. As soon as I’m able I’ll start a collection to get Maltbie a gift certificate for the Scooter Store, so he can make it around Torrey Pines without stopping for oxygen.