David Senra

As this last piece of identity falls into place, I slide to my knees and in a whisper I say, please let this be over.

Then I say, I'm not ready for it to be over.

Hate brings me to my knees.

Love gets me on my feet.

Gil, my trainer, my friend, my surrogate father, explains it this way.

Your body is saying that it doesn't want to do this anymore.

My body has been saying that for a long time, I tell Gil.

Almost as long as I've been saying it.

My body doesn't want to retire.

My body has already retired.

My body has moved to Florida and bought a condo.

So I've been negotiating with my body, asking it to come out of retirement for a few hours here and a few hours there.

Much of this negotiation revolves around a cortisone shot that temporarily dulls the pain.

Before the shot works, however, it causes its own torments.

I got one yesterday so I could play tonight.

It was the third shot this year, the 13th of my career, and by far the most alarming.

The burning sensation made me bite my lip.

Then came the pressure.

The tiny space in my spine where the nerves are housed began to feel vacuum-packed.

The pressure built until I thought my back would burst.