Bottle empty

Many years ago when I still followed football, back in Germany in another millennium, the most accomplished German club, Bayern Munich, recruited Giovanni Trappatoni, an Italian manager with a dubious reputation but a history of success.  He was passionate, chaotic and a slave to his emotions – in many ways the total opposite of German structure and discipline.  Bayern probably took the gamble because the previous season hadn't gone well.  Fresh blood was needed.

I don't remember how the season went.  I'm guessing almost no one remembers the season.  What everyone remembers, indelibly burned into the brains of all those who watched it, was the media conference given after a particularly dismal game.

It must have been one of the Bundesliga's shortest press conferences, and it was the most hilarious.  Trappatoni fulminated in this particular German of his that was once described as "courage with words".  With a largely correct vocabulary, expressive language and scant regard for the rigidities of grammar, errors or doubt didn't slow him down.  He ranted with exasperation and indignation, as if personally hurt by his players' behavior.  He bitched about the level of play, scolded the team for their lack of effort – playing "weak like bottle empty" has since been enriching the German language – and harangued individual players who had disappointed him.  Three-and-a-half minutes later, he "had done", got up, and left.  There was no time for questions.

For the last few months, I've felt a bit like an empty bottle myself.  The average speed on my commute to work was quite a bit lower than the year before.  Riding was more work than it used to be, and I rarely felt fresh.  I tried to blame it on late bedtimes, but that wasn't really anything new.  Early-morning runs during conferences were no fun at all.  Climbing stairs got me out of breath by the third level, as if I were 80 years old.

Three months ago, in the midst of all this, I played my first game of football since leaving London, and the first game outside and on grass in 15 years.  In the meantime, I've aged by nearly as much.  On the pitch, I scored a few quick goals and things felt good enough, but they fell apart quickly.  I spent most of the rest of the game standing, hands on my knees, panting for air.

I played twice more since then, and each time I felt weak like a bottle empty.  Every time I was suffused with the most vividly painful memories of my early days in Utah when my body hadn't yet adjusted to the altitude.  It felt as if I were running around at 1400 m, and it didn't get any better.

Finally I went to see a doctor.  The breathlessness and lack of performance were one aspect.  Dull pain in my gut that would come and go was another.  Were the two related?  The doctor didn't have an answer to this but, from the results of the blood test done on site, learned that my hemoglobin and hematocrit values were abnormally low.  Professional cyclists have used a number of schemes over the years to keep their hematocrit value as close to the legal limit set by the Union Cycliste Internationale, cycling’s governing body, of 50% as possible.  Hematocrit reflects red blood cells.  The more red cells one has, the more oxygen gets to the muscles and the higher is one's performance.  My hematocrit value was a meager 20%, my bottle almost empty.  My hemoglobin was equally worrisome, just a few decimals from a blood transfusion to prop me back up.

I got an appointment at the hospital the next day.  There seemed to be a sense of urgency that was hard to square with the slow progression of the symptoms.  Had it even got worse at all? The doctors scheduled exams of my stomach and gut, inside and out.  I got what felt like the world's longest ultrasound, lasting 75 minutes and involving three doctors from a fresh trainee to a venerated specialist with 30 years' experience.  Two endoscopies are planned for the next morning.  Details are probably uncalled for, but let's just say I had to drink two liters of a gut cleaner that made me feel like Gwyneth Paltrow, all cleansed and detoxed and like new inside.

My blood got altogether less attention.  There, the focus was firmly on the treatment of symptoms rather than the underlying causes (themselves yet to be identified).  "We'll inject you with B12", the nurse said, "infuse iron and give you folic acid to swallow.  This will probably go on for a week."  I have a hard time seeing myself in the hospital for a week for something of seeming secondary import, but if it helps refill my bottle, I'll stick around.