Big Daddy Cordes would like to thank all the little people out there like his trainer Jeff Giddings and his doctor Bharat Desai, his friends Wayne Crill and Chris Klinga who put him in touch with the good doc, his sister Jill and her husband Phil and baby Fia, and all my baby’s mommas out there – yo Latisha! – and the good lord above for giving me the talent and determination, the margarita drive, and all the agave farmers in Mexico who make that magic mystery potion so revelant – er, excuse me, relevant – to my recovery, and to Big Daddy’s good friends who give him da potions, and to his lovely Jenna as she put up wit me day in day out I love you baby!, and to my sponsors and the agave farmers in Mexico, and, last but most definitely not least, to the Jesus and the Baby Jesus.
Er, sorry. Got a little excited and thought I was a professional boxer in a post-fight interview, or a rapper. Will go back to referring to myself in first-person and rambling slightly less than normal. But first, for the record, I’m sure that lots of 140-pound white guys go by “Big Daddy.”
So, a few days ago, Tuesday, April 27, after consult with my doc, and upon Jeff’s (my awesome Physical Therapist) evaluation of my progress, Jeff sent me this email:
“Don’t overdo it and use a crutch/cane if you’re having pain, otherwise, start walking like a real person.”
Like someone who’d been touched by the hand of a TV evangelist, I stood up out of my chair and I fucking walked. Hell yeah. Can I get an Amen?
Five steps. Or maybe four. I don’t know, but I walked. My first unaided steps since February 1. Less than three months from “vaporizing” my ankle and lower leg, as someone aptly put it, to walking – even just a little. Not bad, I’m psyched. But I’ve still got a huge road ahead. It’s not like I suddenly jump up and am all better – remember that scene in the Big Lebowski, when Walter convinces himself that The Millionaire Lebowski (not the Deadbeat Lebowski), is “A goldbricker, a fuckin’ phony, this guy walks! I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life!” And he suddenly picks him up out of his wheelchair and Mr. Lebowski crumples to the ground. Horrible scene, in a way, only funny because Walter’s such an asshole. Well, that’d be me if I tried to do too much. So, progress, slowly, surely I hope, and, yeah, it hurts and it’s sore and stiff, but I’m working at it and I’m getting better.
I’m working on proving Walter right about one thing: This guy walks.