Great America: Prologue

Despite the title and the photo at the right, this is not an entry about patriotism. Not that there would be anything particularly wrong with that. But that's not what this is about.

It is, in fact, the first in a series of entries about my trip two weeks ago to Six Flags Great America (hence, the photo of flags to the right), the last remaining amusement park within reasonably short driving distance of Chicago. (The former closest amusement park, Kiddieland, closed in 2009 after a 90-year run. Demolition of the old park began a few weeks ago. A Costco will be built in its place. Thanks, Melrose Park. Thanks, Costco.)

I hadn't been to Great America in about 20 years. On that occasion, I was on a date with my then-best friend's older sister. As it was a date, I naturally wanted to impress the woman as much as possible. And what better way to impress your date at an amusement park than by winning her a prize at one of the games? Logical, no?

As you likely already know, most amusement park games are rigged, to one degree or another, to prevent customers from winning prizes. Parks always claim they don't, of course, and even with the rigging, some customers still manage to win prizes through determination or, more likely, dumb luck. Again, applying logic, I reasoned that the basketball shoot was my best chance to win my date a prize. After all, even if the rim and backboard were "adjusted" to cut down on easy baskets, it was still possible to score, was it not? Seemed reasonable.

I got three shots for one dollar. I put my first shot up too hard; it banked off the backboard, bounced off the rim and never came close to the net. Once more employing logic, I reasoned that a jump shot might work better for my second attempt, so I sprang in the air and let fly my second shot. It was actually worse than the first, drifting to the right of the basket and slamming firmly into the backboard.

The shot itself was embarrassing. What happened next was even more so.

As I came down, my right ankle, long the least reliable of my body parts (having been sprained many times over the years), gave on my landing, causing my right foot to roll and smash into the asphalt at a roughly 90-degree angle with the full weight of my body behind it; I actually saw the sole of my sneaker look back up at me.

I knew straight away that I'd done a number on it. I didn't fall down, but staggered a few steps before righting myself and growling with pain and self-directed anger. My date and our companions all expressed concern and asked if I needed to sit down for a minute. I said I did not. I still had one more shot to take, and, ankle be damned, I was going to take it.

I took that final shot flatfooted (no more jump shots for me). It arched through the summer air and sailed through the net without so much as kissing the rim. Nothing but net. I won my prize--a small plush basketball, as I recall--and gave it to my date.

I did sit down for a minute or two, but then got up and hobbled around Great America for the remainder of the day. Sure, it hurt, but after having sprained it so many times before (and so many times since), I knew how to walk with a sprained ankle, so I still got around with a fair amount of ease. We stayed until dusk, when the park thinned out and we could take multiple rides on the mighty Great American Eagle, the park's showpiece dual-train wooden roller coaster; as soon as we got off, we'd scramble (or, in my case, limp) back in line for more.

After we left Great America, we hung out at my friend's apartment for a bit, then I headed for home. I don't recall whether I got a lift from my friend or my date or whether I just submitted to the not-so-tender mercies of CTA, but I do recall getting a kiss from my date. If my evening (now morning) had ended there, all would have been right with the world.

Unfortunately, in order to go to bed, I had to take off my shoes. It was at this point that I got my first look at my right foot. The swelling had molded to the shape of my sneaker, and the colors...oh dear, the colors. Red. Yellow. Purple. Green. (Green?) It was obvious that I'd done a lot more than just sprain my ankle--I'd broken it.

The next morning, I went to the emergency room and, sure enough, the ankle was broken. In fact, I'd managed that most rare of breaks, the fracturing of the ankle bone itself. (Most "ankle breaks" are actually fractures of the tibia.) Oddly, this was, pardon the pun, a good break--it meant that I could go straight into a walking cast and would only need to keep it casted for three weeks (as opposed to the customary six to eight weeks).

The ankle has never been quite right since then--but since it hadn't been right before that incident anyway, it has been entirely manageable--and, as noted above, I went 20 years without going back to the site of said incident. Not that I was afraid of breaking something else--freak accidents can, do and will happen--but because I lacked a car and a friend willing to drive me up to the far north suburb of Gurnee.

Two weeks ago, though, a friend who loves roller coasters in general (and Great America in particular) and I made the trek north from the city to Six Flags Great America, where Will and I traipsed back and froth for several hours. Among the rides, I made some new friends, got reacquainted with some old ones, and overall had a damn good time. And, of course, I took many pictures, which you will see over the next few days.

I did not, however, shoot any basketballs--nor break any bones.