By Will Carlin
In ancient Greece, Phthia was the southernmost region of ancient Thessaly. Encompassing both sides of Mount Othrys, the area was (and continues to be) a mixture of barren rocks and lush forest. It has few roads but many valleys and streams. It is the kind of place that would—in a different century and geography—inspire tales of knights and fair maidens.
At that time and place, however, the stories were not of knights but of gods. Two of the most well-known were Zeus and Poseidon. Zeus was the King of the Gods, the ruler of Mount Olympus and the god of the sky and thunder, while Poseidon was the god of the sea and, in a lesser known role, the “Earth-Shaker” or god of earthquakes.
As it turns out, these two very powerful gods also were rivals in love.
The silver-footed Thetis was a sea nymph and—as nymphs are wont to be—young, nubile and attractive. One of fifty daughters, her beauty was singular, and Thetis captivated both Poseidon and Zeus, each of whom sought to marry her. Their competition was close to becoming violent when a Titan named Prometheus warned Zeus of a prophecy that Thetis would “bear a son greater than his father.”
Upon hearing this, Zeus conferred with Poseidon and each not only withdrew his pursuit, but together, they urged Thetis to marry a mortal hero named Peleus. In celebration of the wedding, Zeus held a banquet and inadvertently snubbed a guest by not inviting her. This set into motion a series of complicated events that eventually led to the Trojan War.
After the wedding and years before the war started, however, Peleus and Thetis lived in Phthia, where they soon had a baby boy. Seeking to protect her infant son from a prophecy of future death in battle, Thetis ventured to the River Styx, where it was said that one could become invulnerable bathing in the sacred waters. Holding the baby by one heel, Thetis lowered the boy into the flowing river.
After immersing the boy, Thetis wanted to flip him over and cover the heel as well, but the hour was late and she needed to get back. Besides, she thought, it was only his heel that would be unprotected.
When the boy grew, he became perhaps the most storied warrior in Greek mythology, the hero of the Trojan War and the central character in Homer’s The Iliad. Near the end of the war, the warrior was killed by a poisoned arrow that hit him in—you guessed it—his heel.
It was this tale that the Dutch anatomist, Verheyden, had in mind when, in 1693, he dissected his own amputated leg (those early anatomists didn’t mess around) and named the heel and the tendon that runs from top of the heel to the bottom of the calf muscle after the famous son of Thetis—the one she called “Achilles.”
Verheyden probably had no idea how well he named that tendon, for the Achilles not only is the largest, thickest and strongest tendon in the human body, but also the most vulnerable.
An Achilles tendon rupture is a partial or complete tear of the tendon, and it is debilitating. For David Beckham, the English soccer player and global celebrity who recently tore his left Achilles during an Italian league game, the injury was devastating.
Reportedly in tears in the locker room after the match, Beckham had worked for three years to have a chance to be on England’s World Cup squad, only to have the dream snatched away from him three months shy of the tournament. Had he been selected, he could have become the first English player to appear in four World Cups; instead, his international career likely is over.
I had mixed feelings when I heard about Beckham. I felt sorry for him, to be sure, but I also welcomed his company; you see, two weeks before he tore his, I tore mine.
If you watch the video of Beckham’s injury, you will see his instant recognition: he put his hands together and made a “breaking” motion while screaming, “It’s broken! It’s broken!”
I, too, knew it immediately. An hour into play, I took a step toward the front of the court—not particularly aggressively—and I felt an explosion in the back of my leg. My opponent was in front of me, so I didn’t have the common reaction of believing that my opponent had hit me with his racquet. I yelled at least as much in anguish as from the pain: so that’s what a torn Achilles feels like. It was two weeks before Nationals.
As did Beckham, I had surgery within days, and I am now on the long road to recovery. It says something about our sport that one of the very first people to call me after my surgery was Dominic Hughes, the standing champion of my age division, and a longtime competitor.
Dominic tore his Achilles in the finals of the 45+ Nationals two years ago, and exactly one year later, he won the tournament (he and I played a close match in the semis). It meant a lot not just to hear from a rival and friend, but also to compare notes and know how well he made it through.
David Beckham is one of the richest athletes on the planet, but he may have lost his career. The warrior Achilles was protected by the River Styx, but he lost his life. Neither Dominic nor I have access to the River Styx or to Beckham’s millions, but we are luckier than either: we have the age groups.
Before we hung up, we agreed that once I come back, we both would continue to play into the 80+ division. To continue a longtime rivalry—in squash, that is; not for a nymph.
