Page 59 of Pickled
The assumption that I was a dumb jock who didn’t know about mindfulness pissed me off, but I didn’t want to correct the doctor. I needed the man on my good side.
“Fine. When do I start physio?”
“Lisa Chen at the Azalea Bay Club keeps spaces open for concussion patients. She should be able to get you in tomorrow.”
“What if I can get in today?” Members had priority at the health facilities, and I was a memberwitha concussion.
“That’s even better.” Dr. Maurice patted my knee. “I’ll see you in a month. Come in sooner if anything worsens.”
Driving away from the clinic, I made myself two promises. One: I was going to be a professional physio patient. The exercises were going to be my new job. Two: Next time, I wasn’t going to tell Dr. Maurice the truth.
The club was lessthan a mile from my house, but I drove anyway. It was inferno-level hot outside, and the sun’s rays sent stabbing pains into my brain. I parked the Escalade in the member parking lot and grabbed my gym bag.
It hadn’t escaped my concussed brain that I had seen Piper at the club. At the time, she’d seemed out of place amongst the gorgeous, snooty socialites—in a good way. Now, her girl-next-door vibe made sense. As I walked to the building, I couldn’thelp but wonder how the hell a single-mom housekeeper could afford a membership at Azalea Bay?
Lisa Chen was waiting for me in the lobby. She was a petite woman with long, dark hair. Her eyes were kind, and so was her smile. “You must be Gideon. I’m Lisa.”
“That’s me.” I shook her hand, surprised by her firm grip.
She led me through the outdoor courtyard, past the golf gazebo, to a quiet building tucked away from the main clubhouse. The physio space was like all of the other ones, filled with bands, Pilates reformer machines, and balance boards. The big window next to the stretching mats had a view of the outdoor pool.
Lisa sat next to me on an exercise ball while she asked a million questions about my medical history, making notes on her iPad. When the interrogation—I mean interview—was over, she shut the cover of her tablet and turned her attention to me.
“The good news is you’re young and in excellent shape. The bad news is you’re a professional athlete who’s used to pushing through pain, which makes you a terrible patient.”
I couldn’t argue with that assessment.
The next hour was humbling. Simple balance exercises that should’ve been easy left me wobbling like a toddler on skates for the first time. Catching tennis balls thrown at moderate speed felt like trying to swat flies after drinking too many beers by the lake. By the end, sweat was pouring down my face, and my head was pounding.
“Not bad for a first session,” Lisa said, handing me a towel.
“I feel like I got run over by the Zamboni.”
“Welcome to brain injury recovery. It’s not glamorous.” She made some notes on her tablet. “I’m going to suggest something that might help with coordination and sound tolerance.”
“Yeah?”
“Pickleball.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“Pickleball. It’s like tennis, but—”
“I know what it is. What about tennis? Can’t I just do that instead? Pickleball is tennis for people whose knees are shot.” The words came out harsher than I intended. “I’m not ready for the retirement home yet.”
Lisa’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s not a retirement sport. It requires quick reflexes, strategy—”
“It’s tennis with a wiffle ball.” I grabbed my bag. “Thanks, but no thanks. What else have you got?”
“Gideon, I understand your hesitation, but—”
“Do you?” I turned to face her. “Because last time I checked, you weren’t a professional athlete being asked to play grandma sports.”
Lisa was quiet for a moment. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t understand. But I do understand brain injuries, and I understand what helps people recover from them.” Her voice was calm but firm. “I’ll see you Thursday. I’ll book a court. And we’re going to try pickleball whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t think—”
“Thursday, Gideon. I’ll text you the time.” She was already walking away. “And bring a better attitude.”
