The days are getting shorter, and the cool mornings are lasting longer – so long, in fact, that my bare arms are starting to show goosebumps. The need for another layer while out walking or riding the bike is almost becoming an absolute. Yep, fall is on its way, and after that comes the dreaded word: “winter.” (Cue dramatic music and a shiver down my spine.)

I have always enjoyed September. It can tease you with warm days, lulling you into a false sense of eternal summer, only for the evening chill to remind you that Mother Nature has a wicked sense of humor. The humidity from those hot days in July is becoming a distant memory, much like my memory of what it felt like to not immediately reach for a sweater. That third drawer with the sweaters in it is practically serenading me, calling out my name with a deep, woolly voice.

September is also US Open tennis time, and it's my favorite tennis tournament to watch. I rarely ever sit and watch any type of sports for hours on end, but I have had tennis on the tube most days, much to the chagrin of my significant other who now believes our television has a strong preference for yellow fuzzy balls. I find myself grabbing my phone and checking for scores – who is up, and who is on their way home, probably already planning their revenge for next year. I won’t bore you with images of trips to NYC (mostly because I haven't been recently), but I could sure use a slice of great pizza from one of the many great red sauce joints in the city. A New York slice is basically a hug in carbohydrate form.

I have had a few “medical” concerns the last few weeks, beginning with a bad case of plantar fasciitis. At least that is what I think it is. It is manifesting as a very sore heel in my right foot, making me walk like a particularly grumpy old man. (which I might be).

I’m sure all of the playing on hard surfaces recently isn’t helping, unless “helping” means ensuring I hobble around like an ancient mariner. I’ve had to deal with this in the past, and that experience wasn’t great. I wrote in my last post that I had worked long hours at the NBO, and I think that all the standing and walking probably didn’t help. I have decided to take a break from the daily sporting activities for a few weeks. On the menu is plenty of icing, stretching, and couch rest, which, let’s be honest, sounds pretty appealing right about now.

The second medical issue is very new and brought me as a not so keen partner to the Ontario Medical System, a system that, while excellent, seems to be built on the principle of "hurry up and wait." I woke up the other day with a very sore “private” area. I would liken it to someone kicking me in the proverbial “you know what.” I naturally assumed it was a passing phase, like a bad haircut, and all should be good in a day or two. Not so, it would seem. I worked on Sunday at the store and I found myself climbing up and down stairs very gingerly, carrying boxes of footwear for people to try on, looking like I was navigating a minefield. As the day went on, that climb became much slower, transitioning from "gingerly" to "barely moving at all." Sheila of course was not impressed that I had dragged myself into work and okay, - that probably wasn’t very smart.

I drove home and told Ms. Sheila that maybe a visit to the local hospital was in order. I knew that I had to do something, or I’d be permanently stuck at the bottom of the stairs.

Given it was a holiday weekend, access to normal medical treatment was going to be challenging. I decided to enter a few prompts into Google Gemini to see what artificial intelligence (AI) thought I should do. And then, like a medical fortune teller, Gemini responded with:

You should seek immediate medical attention or go to an emergency room if you experience:

Sudden, severe pain in your …… (Yes, definitely had that.)
…….pain accompanied by nausea and vomiting.
Swelling that appears suddenly. (Triple check!)

Two out of three might be words from an old Meat Loaf song, but in this case, off to the emergency department I went. Arriving at 6:30 on a Sunday night probably isn’t the ideal time to show up, unless your ideal involves waiting for a very long time. All I can say is, plan for a long night, bring snacks, and maybe a small tent. Oh…and I had not eaten since early in the morning.

Check-in was seamless, and half an hour later, I was sent to what is called the Rapid Assessment Centre. This sounded both ominous and promising at the same time, like a sign that says "Fast Food" next to a five-star restaurant. I dutifully followed the blue line on the floor and found the promised land. Unfortunately, so had a lot of other people. At least the room was sort of nice, if you enjoy the ambiance of a crowded waiting room with flickering fluorescent lights. I packed for a long stay, and I pulled out my book and buried my head in it, hoping to magically teleport to a less crowded dimension. At 8 pm, my name was called, and I was escorted to a small private room and told to undress and put the gown on, and a doctor would come to see me. What they didn’t say – is when? A few hours later, the Doctor popped in, asked a few questions, and said I would need an ultrasound. Of course, this was going to take another few hours. Each step along the way was going to take a few hours – wait for someone to do the ultrasound, wait for the results, consult with the Doctor. It's rare to find myself awake at 3 pm, but there I was, contemplating the meaning of life and the efficiency of the healthcare system. I didn’t completely understand what the exalted Doctor had to say - twisted this, blood flow…yada, yada, yada. Once discharged, I grabbed an Uber home and tried to get a few hours of sleep - sigh.

I’m still here, so that’s a positive, and it may take a bit of time to get to the bottom of what's going on. Another week of rest, along with some very strong antibiotics, I’ve been told to take. Ultimately the word is get to know your couch a bit better.

If you read my last post, I mentioned that I had been a bit of a bad child playing pickleball, displaying all the sportsmanship of a toddler denied a cookie. Anyways, I decided to smarten up and learn to figure out how to become a “nicer” person while playing. I played two events at the recent Ontario Championships, finishing 4th in Mixed Doubles in our category (which is basically like getting a bronze medal for effort) and taking the top spot in Men's Doubles in our age group. Provincial Champion – yeah! The tournament was at the new Pickleplex (Downsview), which I had recently joined, and they did a good job hosting the event. And I think I can safely say I did behave, at least for the most part. My inner pickleball demon was mostly kept at bay.

I am on my sabbatical from playing, so it’s going to be a quiet September. My paddle is probably gathering dust, dreaming of future glory. I have a tournament in a week with the younger sister of aka - the Pickleball Princess. Maybe this makes her a Pickleball Countess? The reigning Princess is quite busy fielding offers from others so the younger version will have to do.

Not a lot of pizza to write about in this post, which is a tragedy in itself. However, I did step out alone one night to listen to Neil Young down at Budweiser Stage on the lakefront. All in all, it was a good night, aside from the constant drizzle which became a downpour with four songs to go. My seat was not under the roof, so staying dry became pointless. I looked like a drowned rat, but a happy drowned rat. I didn’t know all the songs on the setlist, but certainly remembered classics such as "Cinnamon Girl," "Southern Man," "Ohio," "Harvest Moon," "Like a Hurricane," "Old Man," and closing with "Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black)." His voice was strong, despite the deluge, and it was a great event. Though, I’m pretty sure my shoes are still drying out.

On a sadder note (at least to me, her long-suffering father), the "kid" Ms. Sarah is off shortly on an adventure with the boyfriend to visit and live in the land of kangaroos. Naturally, I tried every trick in the book to delay her departure – I even considered hiding her passport and blaming it on a rogue squirrel. But alas, as others (who clearly don't understand the depth of a parent's attachment) have told me, you have to let them go. I was working on a foolproof plan to convince her that she needs to come back and keep her mother company - but clearly that didn’t work. I’m sure I will survive.

That’s about it for now! Thanks for reading.