ish. On June eighth, the boys started soccer camp in Arroyo Grande. Our first taste of normalcy in months. The boys had turned pale after weeks spent mostly indoors. Possibly translucent. Honestly, Nate looked vaguely green.
The boys had a great week of soccer. There were some aches and pains, but otherwise it seemed to be a seamless transition back to mobility.
Then Nate started complaining that his heels hurt. Both of them. James watched him at camp and said he could hardly run. He was hobbling like an old man. Over the weekend I bought him new cleats, figuring the nubs of his old cleats were likely worn-out. We soaked Nate’s feet. We gave him Advil. He took three days off after the fire.
And as we further diagnose his ailments, we uncover that Nate is nine years old and doesn’t know where his heels are. He also seems iffy on identifying his ankles. I ask him if his heels still hurt and he clarifies sheepishly, “No, my heels never actually hurt. It was my ankles. Now those feel fine and the here hurts” (he’s pointing to the insides of his knees). Dare I ask him to identify this common anatomical term?
Today we had a beautiful father’s day seafood take-out lunch, overlooking Avila Bay. Then I dropped the boys off with their buddies for an impromptu afternoon at the beach. Chasing his buddies through the water and running while throwing sand? Dodging and rolling like a flag-belted running back on the gridiron?
Miraculous recovery.