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What's left of an innocent little football match with the schoolgirls to celebrate the school year end?
Well... by the looks of it, nothing more than a motivational T-shirt and a long period of enforced rest during which this bespectacled unfortunate lady is supposed to do her best to cool off the renmants of a colossal, unspeakable pis**d off (er... disappointment...).
Whether she succeeds (highly unlikely) or not (almost certain) in such a task, the pupils who will have to take their make-up exams at the end of the summer will be faced with a rather 'fierce' Prof. (if only for the fact that she will still have to move around on crutches sporting such impressive cast as well...).

«Then we agree Prof. It’s a sure thing now, at the end-of-year game you will be playing for us too...».
The pupils’ request was becoming more and more pressing and insistent.
She, the history and literature teacher (who her lovely pupils, among themselves, simply called 'Prof.'...), however, was rather dubious about it.
She kept twisting her braid between her fingers, as she always did whenever something made her nervous....
«A football match? I don't know girls, frankly I don't know if I'm up for it».
While responding thus to her pupils’ urgent requests, she - indisputably one of the flagship teachers at the top-ranked female high school in the city - nervously looked down at the thick cork wedges she wore on her feet that day, which exalted her long, slender ankles...
She kept looking at them over and over again as if she was sensing the signs of a dark omen about her lower extremities...
But they insisted, practically in unison «Come on Prof. don’t make us beg! It will be a nice chance for us all to be together. Besides, we know that you were a very strong and talented football player in high school...».
She, continuing to twist her braid on her fingers «Yes, it’s true, I played football when I was young, but it's been so long since then, it was a lifetime ago...».
But the girls ('her' girls) would not listen to reason and insisted «You were even the captain of the team that won the tournament between the county high schools three years in a row. There is a commemorative plaque in the headmaster's office. You even won the title of top scorer in each of those three seasons...».
The Prof., nodding, «'Yes that’s right, I see you've inquired... But, really, I don’t feel like playing at all. And I know to be dramatically out of shape., I haven’t kicked a ball in ages, I’ve definitely hung up my football boots... and playing football is dangerous, there’s a risk of serious injury and now I’m too old to get hurt...».
Another glance downwards, at her beautiful feet slipped into those thick and very high wedges: a look full of nostalgia, as if Prof. feared in her heart that she would never see (i.e. put on) them again for a long time...
«No way dangerous Prof.! It will be a friendly match, none of us will engage in violent clashes or collisions or commit fouls that could endanger an opponent’s health... You can rest assured!».
«It will be» replied the Prof. with an unconvinced expression «...but I still say I don’t want to commit any rashness. I don’t have the shape to play football anymore, I haven’t set foot on a football pitch for years. I’ll tell you again, I’m really out of shape....».
«Far from out of shape Prof.! Your physique is perfect, you’re much better trained than most of us... We know that every weekend you go running in the mountains and give yourself long mountain bike rides. Come on don’t make us beg... and then the headmaster will play too. We heard she’s going to be goalkeeper for the Year 5 A team».
«Headmaster will also play? Ah well, in that case then I can make an exception... yes, I really think a game with you can’t be a problem... although...».
«Although, what?».
«Although, girls, I honestly don’t feel like it, it’s been a long time since I’ve played, I wouldn’t want it to be reckless...».
And saying so, Prof. quickly wiggles her toes, impeccably enamelled in fiery red, sticking out of the wedge toe openings...
Then she realises that her pupils are looking at her as if hypnotised by the sight of her footwear: they have to be understood, in fact, since all of them are obliged to wear the school uniform which, from the point of view of footwear, leaves little room for imagination, invariably providing moccasins (equally invariably accompanied by knee-length socks) as the only type of shoes allowed.
The girls, casting eager glances at Prof.’s ultra-fashionable tick high wedges, tell her «An imprudence? No way! As we have already told you, it will be a friendly game, played just for the fun of it. There will be no room for any kind of competitive nastiness, we will only think of having fun...».
«Alright girls, you have convinced me. In the name of the friendly spirit which, as you tell me, will characterise the match, I will gladly play with you. It will mean that some of you will have to accompany me to buy new football boots: mine belong to prehistory now...».
The girls in her class, cheering in unison, «Yay! Then it is decided. You Prof. will play with us, you will be our captain. With you at the centre of the attack, we have already won before we take the field...».
«Easy...» the Professor told them «let’s go easy on the triumphalism... matches are won on the field, not before the game is played...».
«Sure, sure...» the most determined of her pupils echoed her «it’s just that we’re so happy that you finally decided to join us... We’re going to destroy those wankers of our opponents».
«Calm down» the teacher patiently repeats to them, «this is not a competitive tournament. We will only play for the pleasure of having fun and some healthy exercise...».
Another of her students, «Sure Prof., we’ll just play for the pleasure of having a game of football among ourselves... we’ll definitely have fun...».

Fun guaranteed, then?

Well, judging from Prof.’s condition five weeks after that (big) game, it would not seem, despite the forced smile, that 'fun' is the emotion she immediately associates with that 'little football match between schoolgirls'...

In fact, as might have been expected given the well-known rivalry that had always pitted the school’s Headmaster and the History and Literature teacher (indisputably the school’s top teacher) against each other, the end-of-year football match between Year 5 A and Year 5 B was not characterised by the atmosphere of a properly friendly match.
First of all, the stands of the high school sports ground were filled with families, relatives and friends of the girls on the pitch and the colleagues of the teachers involved in the match.
From the spectators, many of whom were holding banners praising the teams and their players, there was a veritable stadium cheer.
Inside the dressing room, the team members were changing into their game uniforms.
Prof. gently slipped off the thick cork wedge sabots she was wearing that day. She carefully placed them in the locker. Before closing the door, she placed a hand on the upper, almost as if to caress it: she felt, once again, that strange sensation of unease mixed with nostalgia, the same she had felt when she had looked at her feet, perfectly shaped, the day she had accepted the girls’ invitation to play football.
A lump in her throat made her hesitate and she delayed closing the locker door.
A girl, approaching her, said «Come on Prof. what are you waiting for? Put your boots on, we’ll be on the pitch in a minute... Are you ready to destroy our opponents and smash everything?».
Prof., after a long sigh, closed the locker door and told her «I’m ready, so ready. I feel like I’m going to rock the world today».
A last look at the open-toed sabots with the thick cork wedge and, again, that very unpleasant feeling of nostalgia and sadness that sent a shiver down her spine.
The Prof. tried not to pay any attention to it and laced up her brand new boots, light blue with fuchsia streaks.
A girl complimented her «My goodness, Prof., those shoes you bought are so cool!» and walked with her towards the playing field.
On the way out of the changing rooms, more or less at midfield level, a small table had been set up with two cups, specially made for the match by the Headmaster: a large golden cup for the winning team, and a silver trophy, with a stylised female footballer portrayed in the act of kicking the ball, which would be awarded to the one who the public present would vote as the best player in the match.
The game was being refereed by the Deputy Headmaster (the natural science teacher), the History and Literature teacher and the Headmaster wore the captain’s armbands of the two teams: the rivalry between the two women was palpable from the handshake, extremely vigorous, they exchanged before the whistle blew.
The Professor was wearing, as we said, a pair of shiny new football boots, light blue with fuchsia inserts: she had decided to play without shin guards, because she did not use them in her day...
A choice she would have regretted, who knows?
The Headmaster, on the other hand, had opted for the boots she used to play with years ago, black with the three diagonal white stripes on the sides. Playing goalie, she wore padded shorts on the hips and sturdy shin guards were clearly visible under the knee socks.
In the first half, the game was rather blocked and poor in goal chances until the Headmaster's team unblocked the result with a splendid header by a tall, slender, red-haired girl.
Shortly before the end of the first half, Prof's team managed to equalise: it was she who scored, with a precise shot from the penalty spot that went right under the crossbar, passing under the head of the Headmaster. While the latter despaired at not being able to block the goal, Prof. ran towards the stands in unbridled joy with her girls chasing after her to embrace her.
It did not escape the notice of most of the girls on the pitch that the Headmaster had been watching her colleague's jubilation with ill-concealed disappointment...
Towards the middle of the second half, then, the Professor even scored the second goal with a precise shot from outside the box: the ball went in at the low post to the left of the Headmaster, who, taken by surprise, did not even flinch.
At that moment, Prof. was in seventh heaven, jumping joyfully for the satisfaction of having scored a double, while the Headmaster, visibly disappointed, chewed bitterly...
Celebratory choruses for the History and Literature teacher even rose from the stands, especially from parents who remembered her, as a young woman, leading the high school team to success on many occasions.
In the following minutes, the Headmaster's team tried everything in an attempt to tie the game, but the extremely well organised defence of Prof.’s team managed to repel every attack by the opponents.
A few minutes from the end of the match, at the end of yet another unsuccessful attack by the opponents, the stopper of Prof.’s team took possession of the ball and made a long throw to the other half of the pitch: Prof. sprinted forward with perfect timing and quickly gained a few metres advantage over the two players who were covering her. She elegantly controlled the ball and sprinted towards the opponent's area.
No one could keep up with her, the opponents who were chasing after a few metres gave up chasing her... Prof. was too fast... only one last defender besides the goalkeeper (i.e. the Headmaster) now stood between herself and the opponent's goal.
A classmate ran alongside her, asking to receive the ball, as she was more wide open than her. But Prof. continued to run alone with the ball attached to her foot: having reached the three-quarter of the field, she got rid of the last defender with an elegant dribble and headed straight for the goal.
Too strong was the temptation to score the third goal (a hat-trick!) rather than pass the ball to her team-mate.
Prof. then aimed straight at the penalty area, preparing to shoot towards the goal.

Ow! How she would regret that decision in the weeks to come!
How long she would have been consumed by the regret of not getting rid of that ball for the benefit of the pupil running beside her...
If only she had known that, by giving an easy assist to her marking-free team-mate, she would have avoided an experience akin to a descent into the realms of the underworld...
At that moment, unfortunately for her, she was not reminded of the feeling of undefinable sorrow and nostalgia that she had felt when looking at her feet squeezed into those fashionable wedges on the day when, after many hesitations, she had finally accepted the invitation to participate in the end-of-year football match.
Curse that invitation and curse, above all, her decision to accept it!
However, it’s true that it’s easy to speak in retrospect (as they say, ‘after the ship has sunk, everyone knows how she might have been saved’, isn’t it?)...

At that very moment, her old instinct as a penalty area striker took hold of Prof. again, preventing her from thinking of any other scenario than to bag the ball behind the goalkeeper's back.
Prof. therefore entered the penalty area, the Headmaster parried in front of her.
Prof. performed an outstanding feint, the Headmistress closed her eyes and dived forward with both legs.
Prof. managed at the last moment to touch the base of the ball with her toes, the ball soared, and turned into a splendid lob that went into the ground near the base of the right post.
A roar erupted in the stands to mark the splendid goal.
Her teammates embraced and immediately ran towards her to celebrate her feat as she deserved.
A hat-trick!
Prof. had just scored a hat-trick!
Despite her many years of absence from the playing field, their legendary Prof. had by no means lost her feeling for scoring, on the contrary... she continued to be a real 'penalty area animal'...
But Prof. couldn’t even for a second rejoice at the hat-trick she had just scored...
A few moments after she had touched the ball just enough to get it past the outgoing goalkeeper, she was literally overwhelmed by the desperate exit of the Headmaster in goalkeeper's gear...
A sinister noise of something breaking was distinctly heard by the players nearby, then another and another.
Then there was only room for the excruciating screams of pain of the Professor who literally began to gasp trying to hold up her right leg.
The Headmaster was also groaning in the corner holding her hand....
After a few moments of initial bewilderment, with the Professor even experiencing gagging, some boys with a stretcher promptly entered the field.
To the bewilderment of those present, the Professor, whose face had now become a mask of pain, was loaded onto the stretcher and carried off the field.
Some girls had approached to give her first aid, one was unlacing her boot, but another stopped her before she could even unlace it «Stop! Don’t take it off her! If you take it off her, her ankle will swell immediately. Let them take it off at the hospital, the paramedics will know what to do once there».
The Professor, lying on the stretcher, her expression distraught with suffering, was taken to the sidelines and from there loaded onto an ambulance, which had been called by the other teachers in the meantime.
As she left the playing field, her hands pressed to her eyes and in spasms, the parents and pupils in the stands gave her a long and participative applause...
Then in the blink of an eye (or so it must have seemed to her…), the ambulance ride, the arrival at the emergency room, the nurses helping her from the stretcher to sit on a wheelchair and accompanying her for X-rays.
The X-rays, the orthopaedist shaking her head, the cast room and... and by then the Professor is already unconscious, overwhelmed by pain and drips of painkillers.
Over the next few hours she is kept in a state of enforced drowsiness.
When she finally regains a modicum of consciousness, it’s already the next day.
She’s in a hospital room and, according to the orthopaedist who is describing the situation to her, she will be there for no less than four weeks: on her right leg she is wearing a gigantic cast (100% made of genuine plaster of Paris) that runs from her groin down to her toes.
The attractive orthopaedist, laying the X-rays in front of her eyes, describes the consequences of her unfortunate accident: fracture of the femoral neck, fracture of the tibial plateau and multiple injuries to the ankle ligaments.
The Professor, in a thin voice and pale as a rag «Please Doctor, don't keep me on tenterhooks. How long will I have to stay like this?».
The doctor, giving her a look full of affection and pity «I’m deeply sorry M’am, but the fractures are both many and, unfortunately, severe and the prognosis is just as severe: you will have to stay in hospital for no less than four weeks with your casted leg in traction. If everything goes according to plan, we will send you home in four weeks, but not before replacing your cast with a slightly less bulky one and, above all, equipped with a convenient rubber heel under the sole. That way you will be able to walk again, with the help of crutches, of course. If all goes well, you will have to wear the cast for another two and a half months or so. If all goes well, however, because in situations like that, it doesn't take long for unforeseen complications to arise, which inevitably lead to a lengthening of the recovery time...».
The Prof., looking paler and paler, «So you’re telling me that 'if all goes well' (all goes well!) I’ll have to spend three and a half months in such a monstrous cast? That is, at best I will have to wear the cast for fourteen weeks? A nightmare! Poor me!». And saying so, the Prof. puts her hands on her cheeks, assuming a dismayed expression....
The doctor, trying to reassure her, «Yes, I realise Ma’am that such a scenario can seem devastating, but I am quite optimistic about it. I am sure that you will follow the prescriptions I will give you to the letter and in this way we will reduce the time of your recovery to a maximum... You will see that in no more than four months you will be free of the cast and the crutches and in five, five and a half months you will be wearing heels again... Of course, you’ll need to undergo heavy, close physiotherapy sessions (which, at first, may seem you even more unbearable than this cumbersome cast), but with calm, patience and, above all, a lot of time, you’ll come out of it…».
«F-f-f-f-four months I have to wear this hideous hip-to-toe cast?!?? Are you telling me that at best (at best!) I will have to wear the cast for four months? In less than two weeks summer will start and I’ll be like this, in such a big cast... I can’t cope with this, I can’t cope with this...».
The Doctor «I realise M’am that the scenario that awaits you is not the most pleasant, but unfortunately, I am unable to tell you otherwise. Your situation is not serious, but it is severe, the fractures are many and serious: the healing process will take a long time...».
Prof. meanwhile started sobbing, her beautiful cheeks being covered with copious tears....
Pulling up her nose, she says, «It’s not possible! The summer, the whole summer to be spent in such an enormous cast! I had organised a boat cruise among the Aegean islands with my husband and our best friends. Sun, sea and relaxation galore... We had wanted to do it for years and had finally managed to organise it... What am I going to do looking like this? How will I do it?» exclaims Prof., at that point visibly exasperated, almost shouting.
The doctor, shaking her head slightly, strokes Prof.’s forehead affectionately and says «I’m very sorry, Ma’am, but I’m afraid you’ll have to revise your plans for this summer. You will have to opt for a more 'settled' solution. I’m afraid it will be difficult for you to get away from the living room couch... except for the twenty to thirty minutes of daily walking you’ll have to do to try not to completely lose muscle tone in the other leg as well...».
And, saying so, she hands her a handkerchief to blow her nose.
Then he leaves the room, leaving the Professor behind her, who is now plunged into a veritable abyss of depression.
The doctor mentions in a whisper to the nearest nurse: «Increase the doses of painkiller: this wretched woman is on the verge of nervous breakdown. Let’s keep her in a state of forced drowsiness for a couple more days».
Thus, being in a state of constant numbness, the Professor remembers little or nothing of the courtesy visit the Headmaster paid her the following day.
The Headmaster peeps into her room in the early afternoon, accompanied by the Vice-Principal holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers.
The Headmaster has her arm around her neck: in the accident at the game she suffered a slight fracture of the wrist and a fracture of the thumb of her left hand. She wears a cast that starts below the elbow and goes all the way down to the fingers, the thumb is blocked by a metal splint.
The Headmaster is visibly distressed and incapacitated, even though the cast she wears is, objectively speaking, ridiculous compared to the gigantic one that relentlessly grips poor Prof.'s right leg.
In her other hand the Headmaster carries the silver trophy with the stylised football player.
Placing it on the bedside table next to the Professor's bed of sorrow, she tells her «This is the trophy for the best player in the game. You won it! The crowd’s vote was practically unanimous. There was no doubt who had been the best player of the match in light of your extraordinary hat-trick. Too bad...».
«Too bad what?» the Professor asks her with a hint in her voice....
«Too bad», the Vice Headmaster steps in «that your team lost the match in the end...».
«What do you mean lost? After my goal we were up by two goals... I remember very well scoring the 3-1 goal before I broke my leg on impact with you...».
«Yes it's true» replied the Headmistress, «but after our regrettable and very unfortunate collision your teammates, evidently in a state of shock, managed to get two goals in a few minutes and then, in the dying minutes, my team managed to score the winning goal».
Before the Prof. can reply anything, the Headmaster adds: «Even though there is no need to do so, I would like to tell you, so that everything is clear and defined between us, that it was an unfortunate but indisputable ‘incident of play’, something that can happen during a football match, which is still a contact sport... Far be it from me to even think that my desperate exit could have broken your leg... and then, as you can see, I got hurt too..».
The Prof., glaring at her, replies, «Grunt! You may have hurt yourself, but it’s not hard to see who among us got the worst of it...».
«Of course», the Headmaster tells her, resting her healthy hand on Prof.’s plastered big leg, «I have no difficulty in recognising that, as they say, you came out with more broken bones than I did, ha ha ha...».
The Prof., snorting with impatience, insists: «That's right, with your kamikaze exit you broke three bones (three bones!) of my poor leg. And what did you do to yourself? Practically nothing... just a cast on your arm and a splinted thumb. By the way, you broke your left one, which you don't need for writing, since you are right-handed. Even this luck you had! Whereas me, look what you’ve done to me! You bedridden me for who knows how long! What nerves!».
At this point, the Vice-Principal approached her and, stroking her forehead, looked at her with an affectionate gaze and said, «Calm down dear, try to stay calm. It is useless to get upset and brood over what happened. Thinking back with rancour and resentment about what happened won’t change the situation and, above all, won’t put your leg back in place...».
Prof., rolling her eyes and folding her arms, «Exactly! It’s easy for you to come in here and try to comfort me with the typical supportive phrases one would say to an injured hospitalized person. You are in top form, bursting with health. And so are you, what’s that little cast you have to wear on your arm? In a month’s time, or less, you’ll have it off and everything will be fine, you’ll be able to leave smiling for your July and August holidays. It is I, on the other hand, who will be forced to spend the summer with a cast and crutches. Damn it! At the very thought I go out of my mind!».
The Headmaster approaches her and caressing the toes of her plastered foot says, «Ssshh, don’t fret. The worst is over now, you are in very good hands here. This hospital is a health facility of excellence, you’ll see that you’ll be back on your feet in no time...».
Prof., rolling her eyes, resumes the thread of the discourse «About the fact that the worst is over, there would be argument, since I’ll have to wear this damn plaster cast all summer (and beyond...). In the same way, let’s leave aside which of us came out worse from that 'fortuitous' collision (which, to tell the truth, didn’t seem so fortuitous to me, considering the vehemence with which you dived long onto the playing field, not even a professional league footballer would have made such an exit on an opponent thrown at the goal...). So you won, then?» asks Prof. with a visibly worried expression.
«Yes, 4-3» replies the Headmaster proudly.
The Prof, chewing bitterly, curses «Damn it! My broken leg couldn’t even win us the game. What bad luck! I got multiple fractures and we even lost! Argh, f*ck! F*ck! F*ck!».
The Headmaster, visibly surprised, «Darling I can understand your disappointment at the situation, but please try to maintain a demeanour, we are still among colleagues...».
The Professor is too distraught and devastated to reply even with a simple word....
The next day, while the nurses are placing her plastered leg inside the ring of the traction machine, the Prof. receives a visit from her schoolgirls.
Nervous about the constant twinges of pain in her leg and the oppressive weight of the cast and the uncomfortable position in bed, she spent the last half hour railing against the nurses, who she said were guilty of doing nothing to help her and try to lessen her obvious deep discomfort.
Prof. forced the nurses to change the inclination of the winch several times to pull her leg.
The two nurses on her service, evidently impatient, repeatedly muttered to each other that if the patient did not come to her senses, they would pump her full of tranquillisers in order to reduce her to a quieter (and for them, manageable...) drowsy state.
When at last the inclination of Prof.’s big leg seems to be just right and to the patient's liking, the nurses make their way to the exit of the room.
They are both young, relatively attractive, and from their service gowns reveal two almost perfect pairs of legs.
It cannot be ruled out that it is precisely the sight of the two nurses' amazingly toned 'lower extremities' that has made the patient even more irritable and aggressive...
Crossing to the pupils at the door of the room, one of the nurses tells them «Good luck girls, you’ll need it. She is literally angry at the whole world. In a word, intractable!».
The girls are literally bewildered at the sight of the dramatic size of their poor teacher’s cast.
In the fifty minutes or so of the courtesy visit, none of them manages to take their eyes off the teacher’s big leg and, above all, the swollen toes of her foot in plaster, even for a moment.
The girls hand her a gift packet.
She unwraps it, and inside is a grey T-shirt with the words 'PAIN IS TEMPORARY, PRIDE IS FOREVER'.
A girl says «This is for you Prof., to make you feel our closeness. We are shocked by what has happened to you...».
The Prof., shaking her hand and putting her other hand over her heart, says «Thank you, really, it’s a gesture I really appreciate».
Then another girl adds «Unfortunately, we couldn't find it with a football, only a baseball... But the inscription reflects all our encouragement to you...».
Prof., turning the T-shirt over in her hands «A baseball? I hadn’t even noticed, the phrase, however, is beautiful and, above all, very apt to describe my state of mind. And, besides, as you can imagine, my plastered leg now makes no difference between a football and a baseball, unfortunately...».
One of the girls, about to start crying, takes her hand and says, «Prof. you don’t know how guilty we feel for insisting that you play the ball game with us. It’s all our fault, if we hadn't forced you to accept, you wouldn’t be confined to a hospital bed now...».
Another girl, joining in, «That’s right Prof., we feel devastated about what happened to you. By the way, you’re a real champ at football. Before you got injured, you even scored a hat-trick. Thanks to you, we were destroying those little brats…».
Yet another intervenes, she too wants to have her say: «Prof., I can’t stand seeing you like this. One second I was running to embrace you after your beautiful third goal and the next second I remember you on the ground, a mask of pain, while you were trying to hold up your leg... It's not fair...».
The Prof. turning to this last pupil «Come here next to me dear, come closer. You see, it’s not a question of right or wrong. The practice of sport, of any sport, unfortunately implies dangers, and I have become, despite myself, a living testimony to the dangers that can lurk in a football match, even if it is only a friendly game...».
The schoolgirls, however, seem to be at a loss for words over the misfortune that befell their teacher: «But Prof... We didn’t want any of this. We just wanted a fun occasion to end the school year on a happy note. And now, instead, look at you here, in a hospital bed with this heavy, uncomfortable full leg cast that you’ll be forced to wear who knows how long. With summer just around the corner, you’ve certainly ruined your holiday, such a bummer!».
Prof., clearing her throat, tells them, «Well girls, I’d actually avoid talking about summer and holidays, otherwise I’ll get nervous again. As you can imagine seeing what condition I’m in, I’m rather touchy on the subject. I’m really afraid that I won’t be spending the holidays I had imagined: a decidedly more 'static' and, unfortunately, decidedly less exciting and fulfilling scenario awaits me. But what can you do? That's life, as they say... I guess destiny had in store for me a prolonged period of cast and crutches... I can swear at the heavens all I want, but this is the situation and I am forced to come to terms with it. Rather, don’t worry, I don’t hold you in any way responsible for all this» and, saying this, she repeatedly taps her fingers on the rough surface of the imposing plaster cast, «and I will have no feelings of revenge with those among you whom I will see again in about eight weeks' time for the remedial exams. Although on that occasion I will still, alas, be forced to wear this hideous and cumbersome cast. If only I think about it, I go crazy. Ah, wretched me, how will I manage?».
While the girls, after saying goodbye one last time, leave the room in good order, Prof. knows, however, that every time (practically every second of the next twelve weeks...) that her gaze falls on the heavy cast in which her poor leg is imprisoned, she will invariably, unfailingly and constantly think that if those 'bloody little goose' students of hers hadn’t bombarded her with their requests to take part in the game, she would be spending the summer diving from a sailboat into the crystal-clear waters of the Aegean... but instead, by accepting that damned invitation, the scenario of the longed-for holiday has irretrievably sunk into a squalid forced stay on the sofa at home...

Four weeks have passed since that afternoon in hospital.
Prof. has recently returned home.
The leg cast was, as planned, changed for her.
She had it put on in pink, to try, at least, to have a positive outlook on the future…
She is now positioned in her new 'battle station', namely the electric recliner that her husband promptly went and bought for her in anticipation of her ( alas, exceedingly sad) return home once discharged from hospital.
The recliner (a 'Relax Lift', the top model of the best orthopaedic shop in town) is the 'playground' where the unfortunate Prof. will continue to be accommodated in the next few weeks, which are expected to be very long for her...
To her right, the new 'work tools': TV remote control, cordless phone and mobile phone, since the only sport she will be able to practise will be 'typing on the keyboard'.
On her left, leaning against the headboard of the recliner, are two massive axillary crutches, inseparable travelling companions that will invariably accompany her in all her 'displacements'.
On her healthy foot is a sneaker, a sad reminder of her beloved late afternoon and weekend runs.
The same trainer that in the coming weeks will accompany the hated therapeutic walks imposed on her by the inflexible orthopaedist as an optimistic attempt to keep her from losing that minimum of physical fitness and muscle tone...
Pain is temporary?
In all probability yes, although 'temporariness' when it lasts for twelve to fourteen weeks starts to 'smell' a lot like 'permanence'...
Itching is temporary?
Is the copious sweating temporary?
That oppressive (and almost constant) feeling of sultriness is also temporary?
Yes, although having to deal with them for four months and maybe more is something that would test even the nerves of a meditative yoga teacher...
Are the sudden mood swings and outbursts of anger and frustration temporary?
Yes, they are too.
However, in the weeks that the poor lady will still be forced to spend in these miserable conditions, every rude and grumpy reaction will have more than a few justifications.
There is only one thing that, for the poor thing, is far from being temporary and, on the contrary, will be an ineradicable constant in the weeks to come: a resounding, colossal, unsuppressible, let alone dissimulable... pis**d off.
Gigantic pis**d off, possibly even accentuated by the idea that:
1. the summer that she was supposed to be marvellously spending in the crystal-clear waters of the Greek islands, she’s, instead, spending in the living room of her home and, indeed, the electric lift-up chair, comfortable though it may be, certainly does not offer the same emotions as walking barefoot on the deck of a boat...;
2. while she, on the occasion of the unfortunate accident (which comes back to her mind incessantly like a film for which there are no credits) practically destroyed her leg, the Headmaster (yes, really her!) got away with a ridiculous fracture in her wrist which, by the way, has already healed by the time, one month after that damned football match, Prof. has finally returned home;
3. the Headmaster (yes, her again!) embarked in her place on the cruise to the Aegean that her friends decided not to postpone in spite of everything;
4. the Headmaster (yes, her once again!) just during this last video call sent her an irreverent whatsapp in the high school teachers' chat with the words "Pink Positive!", ironically referring to the colour of the heavy plaster cast that will invariably characterise, alas, the summer of the unfortunate History and Literature teacher.
Are there, at first glance, sufficient reasons to justify the incalculable pis**d off (er… wrath) barely concealed by the poor convalescent woman behind the forced smile offered to the photographer's shot?
At first glance, yes.
And also at second glance, third and fourth glance, and so on.
If her fellow teachers only knew that the continuous movement of the toes of the big foot in plaster is not only dictated by the need to continue to adequately stimulate the blood circulation of the immobilised limb, but is actually a timely indication of the nervousness of their bespectacled (and, above all, unfortunate) colleague, they would certainly avoid making the usual jokes and teasing that are traditionally addressed to a person in her condition...
The stiffly clenched fist of her right hand did not, however, escape the watchful eye of her husband, who promptly closed the video-call before his bride publicly stormed out...
OK, 'pain is temporary and pride (and patience?) is forever', but there is a limit to everything...

Description

What's left of an innocent little football match with the schoolgirls to celebrate the school year end?
Well... by the looks of it, nothing more than a motivational T-shirt and a long period of enforced rest during which this bespectacled unfortunate lady is supposed to do her best to cool off the renmants of a colossal, unspeakable pis**d off (er... disappointment...).
Whether she succeeds (highly unlikely) or not (almost certain) in such a task, the pupils who will have to take their make-up exams at the end of the summer will be faced with a rather 'fierce' Prof. (if only for the fact that she will still have to move around on crutches sporting such impressive cast as well...).

«Then we agree Prof. It’s a sure thing now, at the end-of-year game you will be playing for us too...».
The pupils’ request was becoming more and more pressing and insistent.
She, the history and literature teacher (who her lovely pupils, among themselves, simply called 'Prof.'...), however, was rather dubious about it.
She kept twisting her braid between her fingers, as she always did whenever something made her nervous....
«A football match? I don't know girls, frankly I don't know if I'm up for it».
While responding thus to her pupils’ urgent requests, she - indisputably one of the flagship teachers at the top-ranked female high school in the city - nervously looked down at the thick cork wedges she wore on her feet that day, which exalted her long, slender ankles...
She kept looking at them over and over again as if she was sensing the signs of a dark omen about her lower extremities...
But they insisted, practically in unison «Come on Prof. don’t make us beg! It will be a nice chance for us all to be together. Besides, we know that you were a very strong and talented football player in high school...».
She, continuing to twist her braid on her fingers «Yes, it’s true, I played football when I was young, but it's been so long since then, it was a lifetime ago...».
But the girls ('her' girls) would not listen to reason and insisted «You were even the captain of the team that won the tournament between the county high schools three years in a row. There is a commemorative plaque in the headmaster's office. You even won the title of top scorer in each of those three seasons...».
The Prof., nodding, «'Yes that’s right, I see you've inquired... But, really, I don’t feel like playing at all. And I know to be dramatically out of shape., I haven’t kicked a ball in ages, I’ve definitely hung up my football boots... and playing football is dangerous, there’s a risk of serious injury and now I’m too old to get hurt...».
Another glance downwards, at her beautiful feet slipped into those thick and very high wedges: a look full of nostalgia, as if Prof. feared in her heart that she would never see (i.e. put on) them again for a long time...
«No way dangerous Prof.! It will be a friendly match, none of us will engage in violent clashes or collisions or commit fouls that could endanger an opponent’s health... You can rest assured!».
«It will be» replied the Prof. with an unconvinced expression «...but I still say I don’t want to commit any rashness. I don’t have the shape to play football anymore, I haven’t set foot on a football pitch for years. I’ll tell you again, I’m really out of shape....».
«Far from out of shape Prof.! Your physique is perfect, you’re much better trained than most of us... We know that every weekend you go running in the mountains and give yourself long mountain bike rides. Come on don’t make us beg... and then the headmaster will play too. We heard she’s going to be goalkeeper for the Year 5 A team».
«Headmaster will also play? Ah well, in that case then I can make an exception... yes, I really think a game with you can’t be a problem... although...».
«Although, what?».
«Although, girls, I honestly don’t feel like it, it’s been a long time since I’ve played, I wouldn’t want it to be reckless...».
And saying so, Prof. quickly wiggles her toes, impeccably enamelled in fiery red, sticking out of the wedge toe openings...
Then she realises that her pupils are looking at her as if hypnotised by the sight of her footwear: they have to be understood, in fact, since all of them are obliged to wear the school uniform which, from the point of view of footwear, leaves little room for imagination, invariably providing moccasins (equally invariably accompanied by knee-length socks) as the only type of shoes allowed.
The girls, casting eager glances at Prof.’s ultra-fashionable tick high wedges, tell her «An imprudence? No way! As we have already told you, it will be a friendly game, played just for the fun of it. There will be no room for any kind of competitive nastiness, we will only think of having fun...».
«Alright girls, you have convinced me. In the name of the friendly spirit which, as you tell me, will characterise the match, I will gladly play with you. It will mean that some of you will have to accompany me to buy new football boots: mine belong to prehistory now...».
The girls in her class, cheering in unison, «Yay! Then it is decided. You Prof. will play with us, you will be our captain. With you at the centre of the attack, we have already won before we take the field...».
«Easy...» the Professor told them «let’s go easy on the triumphalism... matches are won on the field, not before the game is played...».
«Sure, sure...» the most determined of her pupils echoed her «it’s just that we’re so happy that you finally decided to join us... We’re going to destroy those wankers of our opponents».
«Calm down» the teacher patiently repeats to them, «this is not a competitive tournament. We will only play for the pleasure of having fun and some healthy exercise...».
Another of her students, «Sure Prof., we’ll just play for the pleasure of having a game of football among ourselves... we’ll definitely have fun...».

Fun guaranteed, then?

Well, judging from Prof.’s condition five weeks after that (big) game, it would not seem, despite the forced smile, that 'fun' is the emotion she immediately associates with that 'little football match between schoolgirls'...

In fact, as might have been expected given the well-known rivalry that had always pitted the school’s Headmaster and the History and Literature teacher (indisputably the school’s top teacher) against each other, the end-of-year football match between Year 5 A and Year 5 B was not characterised by the atmosphere of a properly friendly match.
First of all, the stands of the high school sports ground were filled with families, relatives and friends of the girls on the pitch and the colleagues of the teachers involved in the match.
From the spectators, many of whom were holding banners praising the teams and their players, there was a veritable stadium cheer.
Inside the dressing room, the team members were changing into their game uniforms.
Prof. gently slipped off the thick cork wedge sabots she was wearing that day. She carefully placed them in the locker. Before closing the door, she placed a hand on the upper, almost as if to caress it: she felt, once again, that strange sensation of unease mixed with nostalgia, the same she had felt when she had looked at her feet, perfectly shaped, the day she had accepted the girls’ invitation to play football.
A lump in her throat made her hesitate and she delayed closing the locker door.
A girl, approaching her, said «Come on Prof. what are you waiting for? Put your boots on, we’ll be on the pitch in a minute... Are you ready to destroy our opponents and smash everything?».
Prof., after a long sigh, closed the locker door and told her «I’m ready, so ready. I feel like I’m going to rock the world today».
A last look at the open-toed sabots with the thick cork wedge and, again, that very unpleasant feeling of nostalgia and sadness that sent a shiver down her spine.
The Prof. tried not to pay any attention to it and laced up her brand new boots, light blue with fuchsia streaks.
A girl complimented her «My goodness, Prof., those shoes you bought are so cool!» and walked with her towards the playing field.
On the way out of the changing rooms, more or less at midfield level, a small table had been set up with two cups, specially made for the match by the Headmaster: a large golden cup for the winning team, and a silver trophy, with a stylised female footballer portrayed in the act of kicking the ball, which would be awarded to the one who the public present would vote as the best player in the match.
The game was being refereed by the Deputy Headmaster (the natural science teacher), the History and Literature teacher and the Headmaster wore the captain’s armbands of the two teams: the rivalry between the two women was palpable from the handshake, extremely vigorous, they exchanged before the whistle blew.
The Professor was wearing, as we said, a pair of shiny new football boots, light blue with fuchsia inserts: she had decided to play without shin guards, because she did not use them in her day...
A choice she would have regretted, who knows?
The Headmaster, on the other hand, had opted for the boots she used to play with years ago, black with the three diagonal white stripes on the sides. Playing goalie, she wore padded shorts on the hips and sturdy shin guards were clearly visible under the knee socks.
In the first half, the game was rather blocked and poor in goal chances until the Headmaster's team unblocked the result with a splendid header by a tall, slender, red-haired girl.
Shortly before the end of the first half, Prof's team managed to equalise: it was she who scored, with a precise shot from the penalty spot that went right under the crossbar, passing under the head of the Headmaster. While the latter despaired at not being able to block the goal, Prof. ran towards the stands in unbridled joy with her girls chasing after her to embrace her.
It did not escape the notice of most of the girls on the pitch that the Headmaster had been watching her colleague's jubilation with ill-concealed disappointment...
Towards the middle of the second half, then, the Professor even scored the second goal with a precise shot from outside the box: the ball went in at the low post to the left of the Headmaster, who, taken by surprise, did not even flinch.
At that moment, Prof. was in seventh heaven, jumping joyfully for the satisfaction of having scored a double, while the Headmaster, visibly disappointed, chewed bitterly...
Celebratory choruses for the History and Literature teacher even rose from the stands, especially from parents who remembered her, as a young woman, leading the high school team to success on many occasions.
In the following minutes, the Headmaster's team tried everything in an attempt to tie the game, but the extremely well organised defence of Prof.’s team managed to repel every attack by the opponents.
A few minutes from the end of the match, at the end of yet another unsuccessful attack by the opponents, the stopper of Prof.’s team took possession of the ball and made a long throw to the other half of the pitch: Prof. sprinted forward with perfect timing and quickly gained a few metres advantage over the two players who were covering her. She elegantly controlled the ball and sprinted towards the opponent's area.
No one could keep up with her, the opponents who were chasing after a few metres gave up chasing her... Prof. was too fast... only one last defender besides the goalkeeper (i.e. the Headmaster) now stood between herself and the opponent's goal.
A classmate ran alongside her, asking to receive the ball, as she was more wide open than her. But Prof. continued to run alone with the ball attached to her foot: having reached the three-quarter of the field, she got rid of the last defender with an elegant dribble and headed straight for the goal.
Too strong was the temptation to score the third goal (a hat-trick!) rather than pass the ball to her team-mate.
Prof. then aimed straight at the penalty area, preparing to shoot towards the goal.

Ow! How she would regret that decision in the weeks to come!
How long she would have been consumed by the regret of not getting rid of that ball for the benefit of the pupil running beside her...
If only she had known that, by giving an easy assist to her marking-free team-mate, she would have avoided an experience akin to a descent into the realms of the underworld...
At that moment, unfortunately for her, she was not reminded of the feeling of undefinable sorrow and nostalgia that she had felt when looking at her feet squeezed into those fashionable wedges on the day when, after many hesitations, she had finally accepted the invitation to participate in the end-of-year football match.
Curse that invitation and curse, above all, her decision to accept it!
However, it’s true that it’s easy to speak in retrospect (as they say, ‘after the ship has sunk, everyone knows how she might have been saved’, isn’t it?)...

At that very moment, her old instinct as a penalty area striker took hold of Prof. again, preventing her from thinking of any other scenario than to bag the ball behind the goalkeeper's back.
Prof. therefore entered the penalty area, the Headmaster parried in front of her.
Prof. performed an outstanding feint, the Headmistress closed her eyes and dived forward with both legs.
Prof. managed at the last moment to touch the base of the ball with her toes, the ball soared, and turned into a splendid lob that went into the ground near the base of the right post.
A roar erupted in the stands to mark the splendid goal.
Her teammates embraced and immediately ran towards her to celebrate her feat as she deserved.
A hat-trick!
Prof. had just scored a hat-trick!
Despite her many years of absence from the playing field, their legendary Prof. had by no means lost her feeling for scoring, on the contrary... she continued to be a real 'penalty area animal'...
But Prof. couldn’t even for a second rejoice at the hat-trick she had just scored...
A few moments after she had touched the ball just enough to get it past the outgoing goalkeeper, she was literally overwhelmed by the desperate exit of the Headmaster in goalkeeper's gear...
A sinister noise of something breaking was distinctly heard by the players nearby, then another and another.
Then there was only room for the excruciating screams of pain of the Professor who literally began to gasp trying to hold up her right leg.
The Headmaster was also groaning in the corner holding her hand....
After a few moments of initial bewilderment, with the Professor even experiencing gagging, some boys with a stretcher promptly entered the field.
To the bewilderment of those present, the Professor, whose face had now become a mask of pain, was loaded onto the stretcher and carried off the field.
Some girls had approached to give her first aid, one was unlacing her boot, but another stopped her before she could even unlace it «Stop! Don’t take it off her! If you take it off her, her ankle will swell immediately. Let them take it off at the hospital, the paramedics will know what to do once there».
The Professor, lying on the stretcher, her expression distraught with suffering, was taken to the sidelines and from there loaded onto an ambulance, which had been called by the other teachers in the meantime.
As she left the playing field, her hands pressed to her eyes and in spasms, the parents and pupils in the stands gave her a long and participative applause...
Then in the blink of an eye (or so it must have seemed to her…), the ambulance ride, the arrival at the emergency room, the nurses helping her from the stretcher to sit on a wheelchair and accompanying her for X-rays.
The X-rays, the orthopaedist shaking her head, the cast room and... and by then the Professor is already unconscious, overwhelmed by pain and drips of painkillers.
Over the next few hours she is kept in a state of enforced drowsiness.
When she finally regains a modicum of consciousness, it’s already the next day.
She’s in a hospital room and, according to the orthopaedist who is describing the situation to her, she will be there for no less than four weeks: on her right leg she is wearing a gigantic cast (100% made of genuine plaster of Paris) that runs from her groin down to her toes.
The attractive orthopaedist, laying the X-rays in front of her eyes, describes the consequences of her unfortunate accident: fracture of the femoral neck, fracture of the tibial plateau and multiple injuries to the ankle ligaments.
The Professor, in a thin voice and pale as a rag «Please Doctor, don't keep me on tenterhooks. How long will I have to stay like this?».
The doctor, giving her a look full of affection and pity «I’m deeply sorry M’am, but the fractures are both many and, unfortunately, severe and the prognosis is just as severe: you will have to stay in hospital for no less than four weeks with your casted leg in traction. If everything goes according to plan, we will send you home in four weeks, but not before replacing your cast with a slightly less bulky one and, above all, equipped with a convenient rubber heel under the sole. That way you will be able to walk again, with the help of crutches, of course. If all goes well, you will have to wear the cast for another two and a half months or so. If all goes well, however, because in situations like that, it doesn't take long for unforeseen complications to arise, which inevitably lead to a lengthening of the recovery time...».
The Prof., looking paler and paler, «So you’re telling me that 'if all goes well' (all goes well!) I’ll have to spend three and a half months in such a monstrous cast? That is, at best I will have to wear the cast for fourteen weeks? A nightmare! Poor me!». And saying so, the Prof. puts her hands on her cheeks, assuming a dismayed expression....
The doctor, trying to reassure her, «Yes, I realise Ma’am that such a scenario can seem devastating, but I am quite optimistic about it. I am sure that you will follow the prescriptions I will give you to the letter and in this way we will reduce the time of your recovery to a maximum... You will see that in no more than four months you will be free of the cast and the crutches and in five, five and a half months you will be wearing heels again... Of course, you’ll need to undergo heavy, close physiotherapy sessions (which, at first, may seem you even more unbearable than this cumbersome cast), but with calm, patience and, above all, a lot of time, you’ll come out of it…».
«F-f-f-f-four months I have to wear this hideous hip-to-toe cast?!?? Are you telling me that at best (at best!) I will have to wear the cast for four months? In less than two weeks summer will start and I’ll be like this, in such a big cast... I can’t cope with this, I can’t cope with this...».
The Doctor «I realise M’am that the scenario that awaits you is not the most pleasant, but unfortunately, I am unable to tell you otherwise. Your situation is not serious, but it is severe, the fractures are many and serious: the healing process will take a long time...».
Prof. meanwhile started sobbing, her beautiful cheeks being covered with copious tears....
Pulling up her nose, she says, «It’s not possible! The summer, the whole summer to be spent in such an enormous cast! I had organised a boat cruise among the Aegean islands with my husband and our best friends. Sun, sea and relaxation galore... We had wanted to do it for years and had finally managed to organise it... What am I going to do looking like this? How will I do it?» exclaims Prof., at that point visibly exasperated, almost shouting.
The doctor, shaking her head slightly, strokes Prof.’s forehead affectionately and says «I’m very sorry, Ma’am, but I’m afraid you’ll have to revise your plans for this summer. You will have to opt for a more 'settled' solution. I’m afraid it will be difficult for you to get away from the living room couch... except for the twenty to thirty minutes of daily walking you’ll have to do to try not to completely lose muscle tone in the other leg as well...».
And, saying so, she hands her a handkerchief to blow her nose.
Then he leaves the room, leaving the Professor behind her, who is now plunged into a veritable abyss of depression.
The doctor mentions in a whisper to the nearest nurse: «Increase the doses of painkiller: this wretched woman is on the verge of nervous breakdown. Let’s keep her in a state of forced drowsiness for a couple more days».
Thus, being in a state of constant numbness, the Professor remembers little or nothing of the courtesy visit the Headmaster paid her the following day.
The Headmaster peeps into her room in the early afternoon, accompanied by the Vice-Principal holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers.
The Headmaster has her arm around her neck: in the accident at the game she suffered a slight fracture of the wrist and a fracture of the thumb of her left hand. She wears a cast that starts below the elbow and goes all the way down to the fingers, the thumb is blocked by a metal splint.
The Headmaster is visibly distressed and incapacitated, even though the cast she wears is, objectively speaking, ridiculous compared to the gigantic one that relentlessly grips poor Prof.'s right leg.
In her other hand the Headmaster carries the silver trophy with the stylised football player.
Placing it on the bedside table next to the Professor's bed of sorrow, she tells her «This is the trophy for the best player in the game. You won it! The crowd’s vote was practically unanimous. There was no doubt who had been the best player of the match in light of your extraordinary hat-trick. Too bad...».
«Too bad what?» the Professor asks her with a hint in her voice....
«Too bad», the Vice Headmaster steps in «that your team lost the match in the end...».
«What do you mean lost? After my goal we were up by two goals... I remember very well scoring the 3-1 goal before I broke my leg on impact with you...».
«Yes it's true» replied the Headmistress, «but after our regrettable and very unfortunate collision your teammates, evidently in a state of shock, managed to get two goals in a few minutes and then, in the dying minutes, my team managed to score the winning goal».
Before the Prof. can reply anything, the Headmaster adds: «Even though there is no need to do so, I would like to tell you, so that everything is clear and defined between us, that it was an unfortunate but indisputable ‘incident of play’, something that can happen during a football match, which is still a contact sport... Far be it from me to even think that my desperate exit could have broken your leg... and then, as you can see, I got hurt too..».
The Prof., glaring at her, replies, «Grunt! You may have hurt yourself, but it’s not hard to see who among us got the worst of it...».
«Of course», the Headmaster tells her, resting her healthy hand on Prof.’s plastered big leg, «I have no difficulty in recognising that, as they say, you came out with more broken bones than I did, ha ha ha...».
The Prof., snorting with impatience, insists: «That's right, with your kamikaze exit you broke three bones (three bones!) of my poor leg. And what did you do to yourself? Practically nothing... just a cast on your arm and a splinted thumb. By the way, you broke your left one, which you don't need for writing, since you are right-handed. Even this luck you had! Whereas me, look what you’ve done to me! You bedridden me for who knows how long! What nerves!».
At this point, the Vice-Principal approached her and, stroking her forehead, looked at her with an affectionate gaze and said, «Calm down dear, try to stay calm. It is useless to get upset and brood over what happened. Thinking back with rancour and resentment about what happened won’t change the situation and, above all, won’t put your leg back in place...».
Prof., rolling her eyes and folding her arms, «Exactly! It’s easy for you to come in here and try to comfort me with the typical supportive phrases one would say to an injured hospitalized person. You are in top form, bursting with health. And so are you, what’s that little cast you have to wear on your arm? In a month’s time, or less, you’ll have it off and everything will be fine, you’ll be able to leave smiling for your July and August holidays. It is I, on the other hand, who will be forced to spend the summer with a cast and crutches. Damn it! At the very thought I go out of my mind!».
The Headmaster approaches her and caressing the toes of her plastered foot says, «Ssshh, don’t fret. The worst is over now, you are in very good hands here. This hospital is a health facility of excellence, you’ll see that you’ll be back on your feet in no time...».
Prof., rolling her eyes, resumes the thread of the discourse «About the fact that the worst is over, there would be argument, since I’ll have to wear this damn plaster cast all summer (and beyond...). In the same way, let’s leave aside which of us came out worse from that 'fortuitous' collision (which, to tell the truth, didn’t seem so fortuitous to me, considering the vehemence with which you dived long onto the playing field, not even a professional league footballer would have made such an exit on an opponent thrown at the goal...). So you won, then?» asks Prof. with a visibly worried expression.
«Yes, 4-3» replies the Headmaster proudly.
The Prof, chewing bitterly, curses «Damn it! My broken leg couldn’t even win us the game. What bad luck! I got multiple fractures and we even lost! Argh, f*ck! F*ck! F*ck!».
The Headmaster, visibly surprised, «Darling I can understand your disappointment at the situation, but please try to maintain a demeanour, we are still among colleagues...».
The Professor is too distraught and devastated to reply even with a simple word....
The next day, while the nurses are placing her plastered leg inside the ring of the traction machine, the Prof. receives a visit from her schoolgirls.
Nervous about the constant twinges of pain in her leg and the oppressive weight of the cast and the uncomfortable position in bed, she spent the last half hour railing against the nurses, who she said were guilty of doing nothing to help her and try to lessen her obvious deep discomfort.
Prof. forced the nurses to change the inclination of the winch several times to pull her leg.
The two nurses on her service, evidently impatient, repeatedly muttered to each other that if the patient did not come to her senses, they would pump her full of tranquillisers in order to reduce her to a quieter (and for them, manageable...) drowsy state.
When at last the inclination of Prof.’s big leg seems to be just right and to the patient's liking, the nurses make their way to the exit of the room.
They are both young, relatively attractive, and from their service gowns reveal two almost perfect pairs of legs.
It cannot be ruled out that it is precisely the sight of the two nurses' amazingly toned 'lower extremities' that has made the patient even more irritable and aggressive...
Crossing to the pupils at the door of the room, one of the nurses tells them «Good luck girls, you’ll need it. She is literally angry at the whole world. In a word, intractable!».
The girls are literally bewildered at the sight of the dramatic size of their poor teacher’s cast.
In the fifty minutes or so of the courtesy visit, none of them manages to take their eyes off the teacher’s big leg and, above all, the swollen toes of her foot in plaster, even for a moment.
The girls hand her a gift packet.
She unwraps it, and inside is a grey T-shirt with the words 'PAIN IS TEMPORARY, PRIDE IS FOREVER'.
A girl says «This is for you Prof., to make you feel our closeness. We are shocked by what has happened to you...».
The Prof., shaking her hand and putting her other hand over her heart, says «Thank you, really, it’s a gesture I really appreciate».
Then another girl adds «Unfortunately, we couldn't find it with a football, only a baseball... But the inscription reflects all our encouragement to you...».
Prof., turning the T-shirt over in her hands «A baseball? I hadn’t even noticed, the phrase, however, is beautiful and, above all, very apt to describe my state of mind. And, besides, as you can imagine, my plastered leg now makes no difference between a football and a baseball, unfortunately...».
One of the girls, about to start crying, takes her hand and says, «Prof. you don’t know how guilty we feel for insisting that you play the ball game with us. It’s all our fault, if we hadn't forced you to accept, you wouldn’t be confined to a hospital bed now...».
Another girl, joining in, «That’s right Prof., we feel devastated about what happened to you. By the way, you’re a real champ at football. Before you got injured, you even scored a hat-trick. Thanks to you, we were destroying those little brats…».
Yet another intervenes, she too wants to have her say: «Prof., I can’t stand seeing you like this. One second I was running to embrace you after your beautiful third goal and the next second I remember you on the ground, a mask of pain, while you were trying to hold up your leg... It's not fair...».
The Prof. turning to this last pupil «Come here next to me dear, come closer. You see, it’s not a question of right or wrong. The practice of sport, of any sport, unfortunately implies dangers, and I have become, despite myself, a living testimony to the dangers that can lurk in a football match, even if it is only a friendly game...».
The schoolgirls, however, seem to be at a loss for words over the misfortune that befell their teacher: «But Prof... We didn’t want any of this. We just wanted a fun occasion to end the school year on a happy note. And now, instead, look at you here, in a hospital bed with this heavy, uncomfortable full leg cast that you’ll be forced to wear who knows how long. With summer just around the corner, you’ve certainly ruined your holiday, such a bummer!».
Prof., clearing her throat, tells them, «Well girls, I’d actually avoid talking about summer and holidays, otherwise I’ll get nervous again. As you can imagine seeing what condition I’m in, I’m rather touchy on the subject. I’m really afraid that I won’t be spending the holidays I had imagined: a decidedly more 'static' and, unfortunately, decidedly less exciting and fulfilling scenario awaits me. But what can you do? That's life, as they say... I guess destiny had in store for me a prolonged period of cast and crutches... I can swear at the heavens all I want, but this is the situation and I am forced to come to terms with it. Rather, don’t worry, I don’t hold you in any way responsible for all this» and, saying this, she repeatedly taps her fingers on the rough surface of the imposing plaster cast, «and I will have no feelings of revenge with those among you whom I will see again in about eight weeks' time for the remedial exams. Although on that occasion I will still, alas, be forced to wear this hideous and cumbersome cast. If only I think about it, I go crazy. Ah, wretched me, how will I manage?».
While the girls, after saying goodbye one last time, leave the room in good order, Prof. knows, however, that every time (practically every second of the next twelve weeks...) that her gaze falls on the heavy cast in which her poor leg is imprisoned, she will invariably, unfailingly and constantly think that if those 'bloody little goose' students of hers hadn’t bombarded her with their requests to take part in the game, she would be spending the summer diving from a sailboat into the crystal-clear waters of the Aegean... but instead, by accepting that damned invitation, the scenario of the longed-for holiday has irretrievably sunk into a squalid forced stay on the sofa at home...

Four weeks have passed since that afternoon in hospital.
Prof. has recently returned home.
The leg cast was, as planned, changed for her.
She had it put on in pink, to try, at least, to have a positive outlook on the future…
She is now positioned in her new 'battle station', namely the electric recliner that her husband promptly went and bought for her in anticipation of her ( alas, exceedingly sad) return home once discharged from hospital.
The recliner (a 'Relax Lift', the top model of the best orthopaedic shop in town) is the 'playground' where the unfortunate Prof. will continue to be accommodated in the next few weeks, which are expected to be very long for her...
To her right, the new 'work tools': TV remote control, cordless phone and mobile phone, since the only sport she will be able to practise will be 'typing on the keyboard'.
On her left, leaning against the headboard of the recliner, are two massive axillary crutches, inseparable travelling companions that will invariably accompany her in all her 'displacements'.
On her healthy foot is a sneaker, a sad reminder of her beloved late afternoon and weekend runs.
The same trainer that in the coming weeks will accompany the hated therapeutic walks imposed on her by the inflexible orthopaedist as an optimistic attempt to keep her from losing that minimum of physical fitness and muscle tone...
Pain is temporary?
In all probability yes, although 'temporariness' when it lasts for twelve to fourteen weeks starts to 'smell' a lot like 'permanence'...
Itching is temporary?
Is the copious sweating temporary?
That oppressive (and almost constant) feeling of sultriness is also temporary?
Yes, although having to deal with them for four months and maybe more is something that would test even the nerves of a meditative yoga teacher...
Are the sudden mood swings and outbursts of anger and frustration temporary?
Yes, they are too.
However, in the weeks that the poor lady will still be forced to spend in these miserable conditions, every rude and grumpy reaction will have more than a few justifications.
There is only one thing that, for the poor thing, is far from being temporary and, on the contrary, will be an ineradicable constant in the weeks to come: a resounding, colossal, unsuppressible, let alone dissimulable... pis**d off.
Gigantic pis**d off, possibly even accentuated by the idea that:
1. the summer that she was supposed to be marvellously spending in the crystal-clear waters of the Greek islands, she’s, instead, spending in the living room of her home and, indeed, the electric lift-up chair, comfortable though it may be, certainly does not offer the same emotions as walking barefoot on the deck of a boat...;
2. while she, on the occasion of the unfortunate accident (which comes back to her mind incessantly like a film for which there are no credits) practically destroyed her leg, the Headmaster (yes, really her!) got away with a ridiculous fracture in her wrist which, by the way, has already healed by the time, one month after that damned football match, Prof. has finally returned home;
3. the Headmaster (yes, her again!) embarked in her place on the cruise to the Aegean that her friends decided not to postpone in spite of everything;
4. the Headmaster (yes, her once again!) just during this last video call sent her an irreverent whatsapp in the high school teachers' chat with the words "Pink Positive!", ironically referring to the colour of the heavy plaster cast that will invariably characterise, alas, the summer of the unfortunate History and Literature teacher.
Are there, at first glance, sufficient reasons to justify the incalculable pis**d off (er… wrath) barely concealed by the poor convalescent woman behind the forced smile offered to the photographer's shot?
At first glance, yes.
And also at second glance, third and fourth glance, and so on.
If her fellow teachers only knew that the continuous movement of the toes of the big foot in plaster is not only dictated by the need to continue to adequately stimulate the blood circulation of the immobilised limb, but is actually a timely indication of the nervousness of their bespectacled (and, above all, unfortunate) colleague, they would certainly avoid making the usual jokes and teasing that are traditionally addressed to a person in her condition...
The stiffly clenched fist of her right hand did not, however, escape the watchful eye of her husband, who promptly closed the video-call before his bride publicly stormed out...
OK, 'pain is temporary and pride (and patience?) is forever', but there is a limit to everything...