I had spent the first 14 years of my life convinced that I would captain the English cricket team, play football for Liverpool or become a famous rugby player.
At one point I probably thought I could do all three.
I was wrong, and so were my knees.
Walking was uneasy, I was experiencing discomfort when I attempted to climb stairs and also when I tried to run. Something was very not ok.
I’ll spare you the history of mis-diagnoses and procrastination that I had to sit through to discover what was wrong with them, but so confused were the various professionals who tried to work out the problem, that I was the subject of a special investigatory meeting of medical examiners at a hospital located next to Lord’s Cricket Ground.
The sad, taunting irony of the location did not pass me by.
I was the star attraction at a knee freak show.
Nine or ten puzzled doctors poked, prodded and questioned me for nearly an hour. There was lots of head scratching and chin stroking, but no one could come up with any reasonable explanations.
One lady doctor invaded my personal space a number of times too often for my liking and for some reason spoke to me as if I had severe hearing difficulties. She had an unreasonable, unorthodox manner, and smelt like Toilet Duck (‘Ocean Fresh’).
“DOES IT HURT IF I DO THIS?” she enquired.
*Manipulates leg in awkward motion*
“YES!” I shouted in her face.
Eventually, after countless x-rays, it had been discovered that my left kneecap had actually split in two, and I had been walking around with it flapping around for months.
I didn’t realise it then, but as my heart sank quicker than a shopping trolley thrown into the Thames, so did my sporting career.
My surgeon’s name was Dr Mike Jackson. Quite why he shortened his first name I have no idea. He was tall, with a severe follicle comb-over issue and hands like baseball gloves.
Perfect for performing keyhole surgery, I thought.