Ever since September, I’ve been (as my dad is fond of saying) “enjoying ill health.”

Not real ill health, mind you. Just ill-enough-health to keep me from exercising very much. (I know that sounds fun. Trust me: the novelty wears off).

For those unfamiliar with the story (if you fall into this group I must say I’m surprised I didn’t corner you and make you listen to the saga) here it is in a nutshell:

Boy runs race. Boy feels pain … big, HOLY-MOLY, ouchouchouch! pain. Right-side lard-lugger sustains stress fracture. Boy hibernates for entire winter. … Eating. Expanding. Healing.

Now, there’s something you ought to know: Members of my family are not what you’d call “graceful healers.”

My cousin Vaughn, who isn’t a Holyoke, but certainly acts like one, is the worst of our bunch. Or the best. It depends on your frame of reference.

He has broken, sprained, bruised and torn more things than you can imagine, and doctors have actually stopped scheduling follow-up appointments with him for one reason: They know Vaughn will have already removed the offending cast, brace or splint on his own, and will be busy … somewhere … playing some game or other.

The rest of us are similar. My sister broke a leg once, but waited two or three days before seeking medical attention. She was 13.

My brother kept playing men’s league hoop games even though he couldn’t breathe. Turns out he had pneumonia … Finally, the ultimate authority (Mom) told him (age 30 or so) that he couldn’t play unless he saw a doctor (Have I told you that we don’t argue with Mom?)

And dad? He ran marathons on an ankle that was so mangled that doctors eventually fused it surgically, costing him all range of motion, so that it would work better (He still runs).

Given that genetic predisposition to do oddly self-destructive things, you might figure I wouldn’t A) listen to a doctor and B) give myself a chance to heal completely.

Except for this: A) Pain hurts; and B) I don’t like pain much.

So, for the most part, I listened. (Doc, if you’re reading this, you can stop now).

But the other night, I realized two things: A) If I had been healthy, it would have been Volleyball Night; and B) I felt pretty healthy.

So, even though my teammates hadn’t seen me in 7 months, 1 week and 1 day (not that I was counting), I headed to the gym.

Now, I suppose the jumping involved in volleyball may have been what my doc was talking about when he told me to “avoid loading the leg.”

But I figure if you weigh 230 pounds (or so), getting off the couch and tromping to the fridge constitutes “loading the leg.”

So, after 7 months, 1 week and 1 day, and countless medical tests, I decided to conduct a little test of my own.

I stretched a bit. I warmed up a bit. I took a ceremonial first jump … OK … it was more of a hop. And then I looked down at my shin to see if the bones were sticking out through the skin. Nothing.

Then I jumped harder. Nothing. I ran. And cut. Nearly darted.

And then I played.

For two hours. Hard.

And for two hours, I waited for that rusty knife of pain that had sidelined me in September.

It never came.

The next morning, I got out of bed with a new vigor, like a big, fat, (writing) bear burrowing his way out of the den after a long, inactive winter.

And I nearly fell down. My back ached. My knees didn’t bend. My hammies oinked, and my calves mooed. The shin? It felt great.

Which made me realize two more things: A) I kind of like pain after all; and B) It’s nice to be back.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net