I once witnessed an injury in a pickup basketball game that is indelibly inscribed on my memory. The young man—the brother of an acquaintance, I’ve long since forgotten both their names—had driven toward the basket on a fast break and was attempting to jump stop with the evident intention of faking out the defender giving chase from behind. The young man did evade the defender, who leapt into the air to block a shot that never came. But the ball handler’s left knee, rather than planting solidly on the hardwood and allowing him to gather himself for an uncontested shot, hyperextended in the most unnatural manner, the sight of it almost as grotesque as the protracted popping sound the knee made in giving way. That incident, as terrible as it had seemed at the time, was a mere sprain compared to the ghastly contortion occurring on the bed. The alteration in Casey’s legs coincided with the beginning of a familiar rite. Father Sutherland read, “Deliver us, Lord, from sin.” I answered, “Deliver us, O Lord.”
