No Limits Read Online Free PDF Page B

aggressive like that. It was just a weird situation. To this day, I have no idea why I did it. But it happened.
    The bone underneath the pinky on my right hand broke in half. It popped, just like that. The bone almost came out of the skin.
    I put my left hand over it and tried to hold it in place.
    I called Keenan Robinson, a trainer at the University of Michigan I had come to trust and rely upon, and he helped me put it in a temporary splint, then got me to the emergency room.
    Keenan called Bob. Bob called me back a bunch of times on my phone. I didn’t answer. Bob called a girl I was seeing at the time, trying to get her to answer. It wasn’t until the next night that he finally got me on my cell.
    It was not a pleasant call. I have bad news, I said. Oh, God, he said. After that he said, we really need to get our act together, “we” meaning me. I know what I did was stupid, I said. I know I made a mistake. I can’t change it.
    Ultimately, I underwent surgery. Doctors fixed the break with a titanium plate and three screws. Keenan did an amazing job helping me with the therapy; the scar is hardly noticeable.
    Bob was amazed at how quickly I was able to come back. Irode the stationary bike hard until I was allowed back in the water; the day after Thanksgiving I was back at it.
    Fall and early winter are typically not big months on the swimming calendar and while obviously a certain number of people in Ann Arbor knew about the break, Bob and I didn’t advertise it.
    My second broken bone is far better known.
    Then again, the time pressure the second time around was very different.
    In the fall of 2007, after dinner one night at Buffalo Wild Wings in Ann Arbor, one of those restaurants with a sports theme, I was walking to my car. As I neared it, walking on the driver’s side, I slipped. I fell down and hit the ground. In reacting—you don’t really have time to think in this kind of situation—I put my right hand down to cushion the fall. I caught myself. Nothing hurt. Everything seemed all right.
    The next morning, Sunday, I woke up and it looked like there was a golf ball on my right wrist.
    I thought, this isn’t good.
    This can’t be good.
    This could be really bad.
    No way I was calling Bob. At least not first.
    I called Keenan and said, “Can you come over and look at something?”
    He replied, “What is it?”
    This was, after all, Sunday morning. It’s not like anyone would have been anxious to roll right over.
    â€œIt’s like there’s this giant golf ball on my wrist. I slipped last night and fell.”
    A few minutes later, Keenan showed up. As soon as he started touching the wrist, started trying to manipulate it, I felt nauseous. Literally sick to my stomach. It was the same feeling I had when he had touched the hand two years before.
    I knew right then the wrist was cracked. Fractured. Broken.
    I started doing some quick math in my head.
    This was late October. The Games were the next August. Two full months left in 2007 plus seven months in 2008. Would there be time?
    Wait. The Trials were at the end of June. Two months in 2007, plus less than six months in 2008 to get ready. Would there be time?
    I was not sure. I worried that I might be done, not just for the Olympics, but for my entire swim career. I was a mess. In tears.
    Keenan said, we have to call Bob.
    Bob had decided that day that he was going to make soup. He had gone to Whole Foods and stocked up on vegetables. He was going to make himself a huge pot of sumptuous vegetable soup.
    Keenan called Bob. Bob told Keenan, put Michael on the phone.
    I was as upset as I could be. I told Bob, I think I just gave away gold medals. I guess it was a good try, I said. I’d had a good run. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to come back from this.
    Bob listened quietly.
    He said, the meet’s not next week. Let’s see what you can do. He also said, I was there for you