By Bob Markus

You've got to play with the small hurts. That is the athletes' mantra. Mine, too. I've always played with the small hurts. Sometimes with the big ones, too. In 36 years of writing sports for the Chicago Tribune I missed one day of work. I was in the hospital that day, undergoing what they told me was "minor surgery." Eight days later I left the hospital, having learned this important lesson. There is no minor surgery.

At the time, I was writing a column five days a week. The only column I missed was that one on the day of surgery. The next day I sat up in bed and watched the Cubs-Phillies game. Mike Schmidt hit four homers and that took care of that day's column. A few days later, Cale Yarborough, at the time the hottest driver in NASCAR's Winston Cup series, visited me in my hospital room. My roommate, who was there for a face lift, was mightily impressed. Actually, I was, too. The rest of the week I just sort of winged it, writing whatever popped into my head. Kind of like today's effort. I finally went home on Saturday and about an hour later Bill Bradley popped in. He was still playing for the New York Knicks at the time and was on the road promoting his book; "Life on the Run," I believe was the title.

When his advance publicist called to ask if I wanted to interview the basketball legend, I said, sure, but I've got a problem. No problem, said the agent, Mr. Bradley will be glad to come to your house. Bradley sat on our sofa while I occupied a matching chair and, although my politics were pretty far to the right of Bradley's, I later found myself wishing he'd become President so I could tell visitors "President Bradley once sat on that sofa."

Several years later, I was covering the White Sox in spring training in Sarasota, Fl., their winter home at the time. They played their games in a park with a rather rickety grandstand that featured a press box reachable only by a set of wooden stairs. The date was April 1, 1981, and I can tell you the date precisely because it was two days after President Ronald Reagan was shot--and Greg Luzinski was traded to the White Sox. On the day of the Luzinski trade, the White Sox were playing an exhibition game in Tampa against the Cincinnati Reds. Two of my three children were staying with me and I figured as long as we were going to be in Tampa, I might as well take the kids to Busch Gardens in the morning and then take them with me to the ball park. Everybody had a great time at the amusement park and my daughter actually wheedled me into joining her on a roller coaster ride, an adventure I would come to regret. When it was time to go, the kids suggested I leave them there and pick them up after the ball game. I actually considered it. For about three seconds. Then common sense finally took charge. In about the fifth inning there was an announcement in the press box that the Sox had just acquired Luzinski, the Chicago-born slugger, from the Phillies and "The Bull" would be available for interview within the hour--in Clearwater.

I hustled the kids into the car and drove to Clearwater, where the Bull babbled like a baby, tears streaming down his face as he recalled his glory years with the Phils. Sitting in the front row taking it all in, were Trish and Mike Markus, 13 and 10 respectively. It was while I was writing the trade story that news flashed on the TV screen in front of me that there had been an assassination attempt on The President. As I pulled in front of our rented condo in Sarasota I took a moment to reflect on what would have happened had I left the kids at Busch Gardens.

Two days later, after my usual morning run, I was sitting on the edge of a sofa taking off my running shoes when, just like that, my back went out and sent me writhing to the floor where I remained until the spasm relented long enough to allow me to get back on my feet.
Damn that roller coaster, I muttered. But you have to play with the small hurts, so I went out to the ballpark and endured a day of hell. It was a day in which the White Sox made three different trades and each time I had to struggle down those devilish stairs to the press room for an interview and back up again to write the story.

Another time I was in Laramie, Wyo., doing a feature story on the Cowboys basketball team when, again after a run, my left knee suddenly felt as if it had been hit by a bazooka. I couldn't stand on it, let alone walk, but luckily, the Wyoming trainer was able to give me some relief and I went about my business. The knee got worse and worse and I recall getting a cortizone shot on the morning of a flight to Paris. Our trip lasted three weeks and so did the shot, which lost its zip as soon as we landed back at O'Hare. Eventually it required arthroscopic surgery, but I never missed a day at work.

I could go on and tell you about the time I was covering the Blackhawks in a game in Dallas and as I walked down towards the ice during ther morning skate I got my first gout attack and hobbled around for the rest of the road trip. But I won't. I'll simply tell you that I went to my dentist a while back and he told me, essentially, "Your teeth are okay, but those gums will have to come out." I had my gum surgery this morning and I'm supposed to be resting for th4e balance of the day. But this is my day to write my blog and you have to play with the small hurts. It's now three hours after the surgery and the novocain, or whatever it was they gave me, is finally starting to wear off. I can hardly wait to find out what's going to happen next.