So my Doctor is not going to be happy with me.

My recently begun rugby career is over.  I was hoping to play some football this fall, but it was midway through the season when I got here (’dem Southern boys don’t mind the heat - my roommate’s friend had a sweater on the same day I had a/c on in my car), so rugby was the second best.  Three weeks ago, I dropped a big dude on my shoulder making a tackle - never lead with your right shoulder when the guy is on your left - and was sore for a few days.  By last weekend, I was ready to roll again, so I played in our game against Raleigh, who are the regional rugby powerhouse.  I’m playing wing, and ten minutes into the game, I’m chasing down a guy who only has to beat me to get a try (the rugby equiv of a touchdown).  I managed to catch him from behind - only just - with a diving one-handed tackle.  Now, this dude was about 6′4″-230, going full speed, and I was trying to stop him with a left hand around his ankle.  Suffice to say, it pulled my shoulder out and hurt like a mofo.  Stupidly, I played the rest of the 80 minute game because we were short guys, and really hurt my shoulder when I threw a stiff-arm with the same hand.

2 days later, I still couldn’t raise my left arm more than a couple inches, so I saw the doctor and got x-rays done.  Turned out how I had an acute rotator cuff tear, which basically means I ripped the tendons in my shoulder.  As far as I know, chronic rotator cuff tears, of the kind that baseball pitchers get, mean a year plus until you’re 100%.  With mine, I was told to wear a sling for a couple weeks and lay off the ball for a couple months.

I should note that my future self with dislike me because I think of myself as the Six Million Dollar Man and am very impatient when it comes to missing my sports.  (Aside: I now work with economists, so instead of being told I was impatient, I was told that I “have a very low discount factor.”  Another coworker, when asked where she lived, said her apartment building was only “epsilon away from downtown.”  You can’t make this stuff up.)  It’s been 8 days and my arm feels pretty good - maybe 75% - so I’m playing touch football and soccer tomorrow.  I wore the sling for 24 hours.  My 55-year-old self will hate me.

As for how the new job is going?  It’s work, right?  I’m learning what I need to learn, and am now only 97 weeks away from my trip.  The girl scene is a bit rough down here in the VA; I’m totally serious about how many girls my age are already married.  It’s nuts.

I’m reading Bill Simmons’ book about the 2004 Sox, “Now I Can Die in Peace.” The book is just like his columns, only he doesn’t have to edit out the obscenities. My roommates must think I’m nuts because I can’t help laughing out loud every ten minutes.

In any case, Simmons makes an important point about New England: the necessary but not sufficient condition for claiming that you’ve been a New Englander is that you know the 1-800-54-GIANT jingle. There are no ways around this. For full certification, of course, you need to be able to identify “the Pike”, a frappe, “Quality, Comfort and Price…that’s nice!”, Bill Buckner, the Blizzard of ‘78 (whether you were, or like me, weren’t alive when it hit), Chappaquiddick, Old Sturbridge Village, tonic, and Rebecca Lobo. That’s really the bare minimum. If you’ve lived in Boston and don’t know what these words mean, there is a good chance you come from the NY metro area.

(The equivalent tests for other places I’ve lived:

Maine: I’d say being a Maine-iac requires four things. First, you pronounce room somewhere between “room” and “rum”. Second, you know Moosehead and Katahdin. Third, you’ve known at least one bearded old man Down East who heats his house with a wood stove and nothing else. Last, you know that, when cooking lobster, you should buy the guy live and let him run around your living room for an hour so that he’s too tired to try and climb out of the pot. I swear I am not making up these criteria.

Oregon: Go Pre Go, “Eggs are cheaper in the country…”, Powell’s, the Country Fair, the BCS West Coast Bias, spotted owls. The list for Oregon is short, because I confess to not being enough of an Oregonian to know a full list. “Eggs are cheaper in the country” is non-negotiable, however.

Virginia: OK, so I’ve only been here five weeks, and I’ve yet to see a seersucker or hear anyone call it “The War of Northern Aggression.”  That said, and as I’ve mentioned before, there are two NASCAR races here each year, and there is an entire street of Civil War memorials.  And I don’t mean to Lincoln and Grant.)