I can just hear Self now.
Self: Lance Corporal Graham, I order your toe not to hurt.
Graham: Yes, sir, Lieutenant.
Self: And if your toe were to hurt, you are under orders to say it does not really hurt.
Graham: Yes, sir, Lieutenant.
Self: And if you limp, tell anyone that asks that you were born with an uneven gate.
Graham: Yes, Sir, Lieutenant.
Self: And if the toe limits you quickness,lateral movement or pop, you are ordered not to allow it to limit you unless it is before, or after a game. Do you read me?
Graham: Yes, sir, Lieutenant.
Self: Frankly, Lance Corporal, your toe already looks good enough to score 14 points to me.
Graham: Yes, Sir, Lieutenant, I believe it does.
Self: Now, get out of your wheel chair and feel good. We've got some conference games to prepare for, Lance Corporal, and we will need you at your best when we need your best, or we will be in a dust storm of freeze dried excrement faster than you can say, "D1 Conference basketball is an order of magnitude faster and tougher than non-conference circle jerks."
Graham: An order of magnitude faster and tougher, sir.
Self: Now you are beginning to understand the meaning of the words "sempre fi," Lance Corporal. These are not just words we write on latrine walls, when thinking privately about Kate Upton at 0300 with our bayonets out of our sheaths, Lance Corporal. These are words we play through on. Do you read me, Lance Corporal?
Graham: Sir, yes, sir.
Self: At ease, Lance Corporal. All you need to remember is this: if you play, then your buddy, Gunny Sergeant Frank Mason whatever the flip version number he is, is going to be spared. No enemy is going to gang up on him every game and beat him to a bloody pulp and kick him in the testicles with their Nike petroshoes, while down on the floor. And he is going to be spared that mistreatment, because you, Lance Corporal, are playing on your sore toe.
Graham: Sir, yes, sir.
Self: Which would you rather recall when you are old and grey and about to meet your maker, Lance Corporal? Would you rather recall Frank Mason whatever the flip his version number is playing happily, scoring more than Brad Pitt in a cat house, guarding with the full force of his sweet soul? Or would you rather see your beloved Gunny Sarge laying in a writhing heap unde his basket after having had his anterior cruciate ligament kicked in two by an enemy prison body ordered by his invertebrate coach to end your Gunny's career?
Graham: The Lance Corporal is out of his wheel chair, sir, and it...doesn't...hurt...a...yeeeeeeeoooooow....a bit, sir.
Self: Sempre fi, son. See you April 6 in Lucas Oil Stadium.