Torn plantar fascia halts tennis match, threatens career

Even the great ones succumb. If it isn't injury that ends an athlete's career, age will deliver the knockout blow -- the overused cliche that "Father Time is undefeated" is oh, so true, regardless of what Tom Brady says. Worst of all, age and injury often work in tandem. Therefore, it's with a heavy heart that I report that age and an injury have put my pathetic tennis career and slightly less pathetic tai chi practice in jeopardy at worst, and on hold at best. I tore the plantar fascia ligament in my left foot during my Sunday tennis match with Phuong. I stopped a little too abruptly to change direction to chase a Phuong backhand, and I heard a pop in my foot. Pain followed the pop and I dropped instantly. A local watching us play laughed loudly when I hit the ground and continued to laugh as I rolled around clutching my left foot. Maybe he thought I was doing my Mr. Bean impression. My wife didn't come to my aid right away, either, probably because my injury may have cost her the No. 1 ranking, which I seized three weeks ago. I was clinging to No. 1 with the score tied 5-5 when pop went the plantar. Two wins in a row on the same day are required to claim the No. 1 ranking in our bitter family rivalry, regardless of weather, injury, or an act of God. Phuong clobbered me in the first set 6-3 and she was leading 5-3 in the second when I made the foolish mistake of battling back to even things at 5-5. Then an act of God struck, or an injury, depending on your point of view. Forgetting the what-ifs and shunning a doctor's visit, I self-diagnosed by going online. And as we all know, if it's on the Internet, it must be true. The pop means a tear (hopefully, not a rupture) and recovery time varies -- from two months to a year to never. I've been applying ice, ice, baby, and sort of limping around when I need to walk. I walked a little in the park Monday night, but have been taking it easy ever since. I taught my private student Sam on Tuesday, and even stood to illustrate the finer points of defining and non-defining relative clauses on my whiteboard ... without remarkable pain. But I won't lie. The pain remains, probably more from the fact that I didn't control things better in my match with Phuong than from my foot getting hurt. But the entire arch area of the foot hurts, especially near the heel. That's as it should be, according to the ever-accurate Internet. If I recover, I won't rule out a comeback. But sadly, I won't be any younger when and if that happens. When the pain subsides, I'll begin self-structured rehab with guidance from the Internet. We'll see how things go.

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I guess the Vietnamese are obsessed with karaoke because they think they're good singers. Well, just like anywhere else, 99.99 percent sing like crap, and the remaining .01 percent don't sing karaoke. For three straight afternoons starting around noon and continuing  until 3 p.m. and beyond, our lovely neighbors launched into a karaoke fest that took the paint off the walls and sent the local rats scurrying for cover under our other neighbor's endless piles of trash. I heard three covers of the song Love Potion Number Nine in Vietnamese, with one woman's rendition sounding like she was giving birth without anesthesia.  Another neighbor had live guitar accompaniment, and it was wretched. Things were clean and quiet for Tet, but that train left the station and the litter and intrusions are back. I miss Tet, except for the fact you couldn't get a taxi. One taxi driver pulled over to give me, Phuong and Joanna a ride to tennis, then waved his hands at us and drove away. What a dork.