She slowly ran her hands up my leg, making sure all along that I was feeling alright. She would comment on how stiff I was as she forced my legs into awkward positions otherwise unfathomable. And after I'm done, she applies a lubricant to make it go faster. Of course, I'm talking about my athletic therapist and my physiotheraphy sessions. The trainer fantasy (and anyone who's played football knows all about the trainer fantasy) is just one of the small perks of being a cripple (at least for a short time).

After tearing my MCL and damaging my meniscus (or as I explain to those unfamiliar with these terms: I f#cked up my knee), I was forced to be on crutches for a week. While at first, I deemed them to be a huge hassle, I soon come to recognize the immense power these crutches bestowed upon me. I could be rude and none would say anything. I could get people to do my bidding ("Yo, prof! Hold the elevalor for me, bro!"). And perhaps, most beautiful of all, the ladies loved it. The sympathy I would get was unparalleled. They would approach me in my classes and ask, "Oh, what happened to you?" or "That looks painful". Of course, being the smooth operator that I am reputed to be I would play it up for all that's it worth. "I injured it playin' football, baby. It'll feel better if you give me your number, though." However, the crutches lasted but one week, so the damage done was minimal.

Of course, I know have the cane and as a good friend (and a member of the one-knee club) pointed out to me: the cane is key. While the sympathy level has diminished considerably, my coolness level has shot through the roof (and here I was thinking that I was already one stone cold muthaf*cka). The limp as I walk, the mixed look of concentration and aloofness, and the cane all converge to make me big pimpin'. The cane also lowers the exertion needed to get from point a to point b, which in my case means that I won't be drenched in sweat by the time I get there. (Tip to all you players out there: despite what Kosta, the fat Greek man, behind the counter of the local Belle Province might have told you, the chicks do not dig a sweaty man).

Like all good things though, my cane and I will one day depart and I will be forced to fend for myself all alone again. Screwing up my knee has turned into a mixed blessing. When I am done with my cane, I will have a solid foundation to build upon. Every guy knows the hardest part of scoring a chick is getting your foot in the door. And remember: if they slam the door on you, breaking your foot, get yourself a cane and you too can get those foxy ladies.

P.S.: If Gaul is reading this: that girl did not have a mustache!