The whistle’s blow pierces the cool spring air as we return to the field for the second half of play. Darkness shrouds everything beyond the bright tower lights surrounding the field’s perimeter. Everything is hushed because there is no good reason for any audience to attend a co-ed soccer team’s rec league game.

Tired but ready, I return to the field as a forward. The game hangs in the balance, tied two-two. Despite my apparel and long hair, I am by no means nor any stretch of the imagination a soccer player. My presence on the field is simply the result of accepting the captain’s invite as an opportunity to exercise and meet women.

But I exude an air of newfound confidence because I think myself to be in fairly good shape and something of a decent contributor. It is a rather new and exciting phenomenon, one that rekindling fourth-grade memories at a time when my goalie skills flourished. It was a rather short-lived period of my life. The goals gradually spanned much taller and wider as I stayed the same height.

With the second half underway, I control ball and make a run toward the goal. It’s a breakaway except for one defender who looms nearer out the corner of my eye. Escaping his attempts, I plant my left leg into a small ditch.

Pop.

I go down wincing, rolling on the ground, and grab my knee. The pain flows through my leg and I laugh because it hurts so much.

Two of my teammates help me to the sideline. An attractive girl from the opposing team walks toward my direction, and it seems promising she’s after my phone number. This, of course, is not the case.

She asks me what happened, and I describe to her the pop.

“Yep. Same thing happened to me two years ago,” she says. “And by golly, if it wasn’t a torn ACL.”

“Awesome!” I want to say.

“But look at me now,” she continues, rotating her knee in various directions. “I’m back and kicking! I guess it took a few years, though…”

Before the night is over, I’m joined on the sideline by two other freshly-injured teammates. To put the cherry on top of this wonderful night, our team loses. The game ends, but I can hardly put any weight against my leg. Only just enough to hobble to my car. Defeated, I wobble up the back steps of my home, hop through the hall and crawl into bed, hoping this situation improves by morning.

The sun rises and my knee has worsened. I’m wondering how I’m supposed to function today with no left leg and no crutches. I hop around my house into the kitchen to cook eggs then again to dining room trying to balance this plate of unusually slippery eggs. I do some research, call a doctor at a sports rehab center and pay him $100 to tell me what the attractive girl at the soccer field offered for free—I’ve torn my ACL.

“You can go without the surgery,” he says, “But at your age, I’d recommend it.”

Before I leave, he throws a pair of crutches my way as part of the package deal and sends me along. At least I now have two decent legs, even if one of them is a titanium stick.

The timing of this event seems terrible. I’m two weeks away from turning 26, the age I’m removed from my parent’s health insurance, so the clock is ticking. I’ve got to find a surgeon quickly before the opportunity to afford myself a new leg passes me by. Until I’m able to schedule a proper surgery, I hope my roommate Alex won’t mind taking care of me for a couple days.

The door flings open and I assume it’s Alex entering the house, but I don’t see him at first. This is because he’s on the ground, crawling. He’s torn his meniscus.

That day we are like two pathetic flamingos hopping around the house. I know when Alex is up because the house sounds like someone is dropping bowling balls again and again across the hardwood flooring. The two of us are helpless. It leaves me with no choice but to drive home and live with my parents so I can be taken care of. Before departing, I wish Alex the best and leave him crippled, stranded and wilting away at the house. I would later find out that he sank deeply into a rabbit hole of conspiracy theory YouTube videos. This awaited me on my return.

I end up going through surgery back in Dallas. It’s hell for the first few days and all the muscle from my leg has vanished into thin air. Before the surgery, they shave my entire leg and it looks like a hotdog with a small tattoo.

I’m lying on the couch, unmoved, and spend most of my day sleeping. Even when I try to think, I can hardly remember what life was like with two legs. It was a good life back then, I thought.

It’s nearly a year later as I write this and I’m back to 95%. Although there are still some pains that did not exist before, which I usually feel after running, my recovery has included yoga, which brought my flexibility back to baseline, and the newly discovered the arts of mobility and movement. These deep wells of wisdom are what I had been searching for for years. The word mobility sounds vague and cliche, but it is joint work dealing with our bones, the body’s foundation. Mobility is moving our joints in wide circles while flexing the body. I highly recommend the 90/90 hip opener, but with flexed feet and lift the front leg for ten seconds then back leg for another ten seconds.

Sometimes we must endure set backs and slow downs in order to leap forward. I will take with me a few lessons from this experience. Avoid soccer fields with ditches. Do not injure yourself at the same time as your roommate. Steer clear of conspiracy YouTube videos. These three learnings, and whatever else you took from this story, I pass onto you. May your hearts and knees be strong.