You're out of shape. woefully so.
So one day, you decide that since it's such a beautiful day, you're gonna dust off the old longboard and take it for a ride. You ride into Central Park, feeling blood pumpin' and muscles burnin'. It's a little sore, but ultimately not bad. You make it a little ways into the park before you see a nice little grassy knoll to sit upon for a minute, bask in the sunlight.
You just sit in the sun for a while, and everything feels good. The smell of fresh air (as fresh as it gets in NYC, anyway) the feel of the grass under your palms.
You relax for maybe half an hour as the sun starts to dip, then you make to head home. You get a few pushes in and POP, something goes fucky in your pushing leg.
Something has torn, or more likely pulled, and the pain is searing and immediate.
You've never been good with pain. You've always had a supremely low threshold for it.
You also have an ironically high threshold for medication.
You hobble your way home, half-limping, half bouncing on your good leg.
When you actually get in the house, you explain to your father what happens.
He is a little drunk.
Drunk enough that all he can do is laugh at you.
He says he's so happy to see you like this, that maybe this is your wake-up call; that you have been inactive for too long.
He makes fun of you for limping, tells you to tough it out.
You want to cry, but you know that will only make it worse.
Real men don't cry, dont limp.