Observe and report

Dear Eddie,

I love you. I do. And that’s why I need to tell you something out of love and concern for your well-being and our medical flex-spending account:

Your basketball days are over.

You’ve said you are going to quit, but like a wicked meth mistress, it pulls you back.

You must stop now. For real. You just emerged from your third nasal realignment surgery (aka rhinoplasty, aka nose job). Your third. Third! Is that sinking in?

No?

Let me jog your memory about other basketball-related visits to the hospital: double knee surgery, plantar fascia repair, bicep reattachment, elbow reconstruction, hip consultations, shoulder scar-tissue cleansing or whatever that was. You are the new Six Million Dollar Man.

I’ve spent many hours of my life hanging out in the Memorial waiting room:

Today’s confinement? Ten hours. Ten!

You are on a first-name basis with your orthopedic surgeon. “Oh hey, Eddie! Great to see you again!” — I actually heard that this morning from your anesthesiologist. Really, Dude? This isn’t crazy to you?

You are like a beautiful mural painted on a condemned building. You are rotting inside. All for the love of the game.

I love you. Please stop.

You have your CrossFit cult. You have the billion-dollar bicycle we bought when you were on your cycling kick. You don’t need basketball. You will find other ways to stay in shape.

I know you like basketball and you’re good at it. We all know that. You don’t have to prove anything. You’ve already proven yourself a force on the court and on the bench — in a uniform as a player and in a suit as a coach.

I’m taking away your various braces, pads, arm bands, kayak-sized basketball shoes, weird-smelling tank tops, athletic man Spanx, and other accoutrements of the game. You can still watch ESPN. You can start sentences with, “Back in my day …” You can coach our kids.

You cannot play basketball anymore.

For the love of all that is holy, wonderful and right in the world, please let this be the last photo I take of your nose being jacked-up.

If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Do it for your kids. Do it for our savings account.

No more basketball.

I know the doctors will be sad to see you (and the new cars they buy at your expense) go, but everyone else will thank you. (OK, maybe not your teammates, but still.)

Love,
Your long-suffering, professional doctor-meeting, waiting-room-sitting, cafeteria-food-eating wife