I compete in sprint triathlons. When I decided to get in shape several years ago, having signed up for one of these races was the goal that got me out the door early each morning to run, bike or swim. I got hooked, and one of the things I look forward to most about the summer is triathlon season.

Last year, in April, I messed up my knee in a weird accident. I was hobbled for weeks, and wasn’t able to run until October or so. Needless to say, I missed the entire triathlon season and was pretty bummed about it. But I slowly rehabbed it over the fall, winter and spring. I got back in the pool and returned to good running shape, culminating in a half-marathon and a 9-mile trail run over a couple of weekends in April.

I was back. I was excited. The knee was great. The first local triathlon this year is a fast, flat one on Saturday, June 18. So this weekend, on Saturday morning after a bike-and-run brick, I registered for it.

Then on Saturday night I pulled my hamstring, pretty seriously. Felt a definite pop. Couldn’t straighten out my leg. Hobbled to the car, drove home, and spent all day yesterday with my leg elevated, wrapped, and iced.

I killed triathlon season a week before it began. I’m looking at 4-6 weeks in recovery, which knocks out next weekend’s race and maybe one after that in July.

Am I upset? Yes. I’ve worked hard for a year to get my knee back in shape and get ready for this season, and to see it fall apart at the last minute is pretty disappointing. But there’s no use being too distraught over it, for a couple of reasons:

1. It’s done, it can’t be undone, and moping about it accomplishes nothing…other than messing up each day I spend in the dumps.

2. I hurt it while playing with my kids, and I don’t want them to feel bad about it.

How did it happen? We were playing a game of family kickball after church on Saturday night. The four of us Boyetts against another family. I was on first and tried to score on a kick from my daughter. As I rounded third at a full sprint, the mom on our opponents’ team was headed toward me about to peg me with the ball. I was looking backward, running forward, and preparing to leap over the throw when the back of my thigh blew out. I must have twisted weird as my leg extended, and that was it.

I’m getting older, I guess, and I should probably stretch properly before sprinting around the bases. But here’s the deal: If I have to be injured because I’m playing too hard, I’d rather it be because I’m playing too hard with my kids. I have always, always wanted to be the kind of dad who plays with his children — and plays all-out.

Maybe I’m paying the price for that in my personal interests. But I’d rather my personal interests suffer due to my commitment to playing with my kids…instead of the other way around.

At least, that’s what I’ll be telling myself on Saturday when, for the second year in a row, I have to cheer on my friends from the wrong side of the finish line.