The Good & The Cheap
The Esoteric Merit of a....Tennis Ball
Sometimes the most humble of objects have a use of inestimable
value, a secret that is hidden from most men and women, known
only to the illuminati of, in this case, the human form. For
those fortunate enough to be the recipient of such knowledge,
their lives are changed forever. The effects on health and
well-being are prodigious & the deep sensation of pleasure
experienced, a lasting joy.
With but little beating about the bush I will here offer up
this profound secret.
Loyal readers of this column since its early days, if such
strange beings there be, may recall that once in a while I
make it my business to impart a life changing gem of such
simplicity that I amaze myself. Such an instance was the one
true way to prevent a hangover. At times of deep contemplation
I sometimes ponder on this gift to a suffering humanity and
like to think of the blighted lives saved from sottery, the
thankful billions of liver cells, not to mention quaffing
oenophiles who may now plan their sorties through valleys
of wineries secure in the knowledge that they will not feel
like a radiation victim each morning they wake to greet the
sun.
On just such an occasion several years ago I expounded on
the joys of massage. Not the sad corridors of ‘massage’
parlours, where the mournful ghost of Bernard Trink patron
saint of such places still awards a supernatural star or four.
Not the vapid strokes of pampering Swedish in a thousand oh...so...
serene spas.
No! A thousand times, No!
I mean therapeutic massage, I mean the good pain that hits
the spot, the spot that exceeds all other spots. Only the
most adept practitioners of this therapeutic art can minister
for an hour or two unto the body laid out before them without
striking a bum note somewhere. You can also drop over $130
easy. Nothing spoils my day better than a bad massage that
costs.
My own initiation into “the knowledge” came last
May in, of all places, Los Angeles. It must be something to
do with the transition from puer aeternus into elderhood,
or cranky old sod some may say, but in the last two years
I have twice developed muscular problems in the shoulder.
Very painful, didn’t want to go away and evidently quite
beyond the skills of any of the so-called specialists I consulted.
My first bout was cured after 18 months of an agony that could
strike at any moment with a careless movement, by a simple
stretch taught me by a woman here in Bali, a personal trainer
who had made it her business to hone her physical re-hab skills
and was developing a remarkable talent. Alas, she has quit
these shores.
The second time, same shoulder, less painful and less restricting
of movement, proved much harder to cure and is with me still,
though now in an almost minimal way. My Best Belov’d
had been referred by her doctor to what turned out to be the
most gifted physiotherapist we have ever come across,a young
woman who worked her art on you with the sweet virtuosity
of Joshua Bell playing in the background, covering the deep
intermittent gasps and groans that only Torquemada or the
Physio from Heaven can elicit.
Seizing my moment one time as she headed for the door for
her next appointment, dwarfed by the massage table she was
lugging, I gabbled that I’d got this pain, see, in my
shoulder, just sort of here but not really there ‘cos
it was sort of underneath that, if she saw what I mean and
could she sort of......... I mean I didn’t want to impose
or anything. Giving me a knowing yet resigned look, she put
down her table, and manipulated my arm up and down, side to
side a bit and said, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll
tack 10 minutes onto your wife’s treatment for the next
few sessions. Consider it a gift, your wife is a neat lady”,
she added meaningfully.
And so it was for the next 10 days I became acquainted with
my Infraspinatus, where a lot of the problem lay, lurking
under my Supraspinatus and that my tormentor was not Smith
Major of days gone by, but that little pipsqueak Teres Minor
skulking behind my Deltoid. This magic lady quickly reduced
my pain by 70%, the remaining 30% would take a few more real
sessions, not just 10 minute tag-ons. But alas, my time was
up and we were leaving LA.
It was at this time that the secret of which I write was revealed.
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret”,
she said. “Most of the people in my profession and professions
allied to it, haven’t really got much of a clue as to
what they’re doing. In fact they’re probably
doing as much damage as good.” I’m going to introduce
you to somebody who’ll be much more useful”,
with that she rummaged in her satchel and produced a tennis
ball.
“Meet Dr Wilson”, she said holding up the ball.
“This and that wall over there is all you need, at least
for the part that’s bothering you. Keep it ”,
she said tossing me the ball.
And so it is that morning and night I can be found rubbing
and rolling my back up, down, round and around, against the
bathroom wall with a strange heavy lidded look of rapture
on my face uttering soft moans.
I’m getting to know my upper back in a way I never did
before. If you think about it, most of us hardly know our
backs at all. We know lots about our front right enough, but
our backs? Why, we’ve scarcely been introduced. Locating
the pain in the troubled muscle I can lean into it with just
the right amount of pressure to obtain exactly the right amount
of the “good pain” I crave. Over the weeks not
only does the pain of my problem shoulder progressively diminish
but it moves location. I can actually move it and track it
around. Best of all is the general application of the tennis
ball to the upper back. Oh! the wondrous depths of access
to an unreachable part, as you roll up the scapula, the pleasurable
click and odd twang as you apply your Rhomboideus major and
minor. And then, as you become more skilled, the delicious
relief as you manoeuvre your sportive orb to your Splenius
cervicis and bear down on your Trapezius. No need for those
silly rip-off 15-minute tune ups on those weird chairs you
see around. If I’m not getting the Full Monty from a
talented body worker I really trust, I’ve always got
my balls.
