Injured in Afghanistan, now US Open ballperson

By Rachel Cohen

Associated Press

Published: Sunday, Aug. 25 2013 12:00 a.m. MDT

In this photo taken Aug. 21, 2013, Angelo Anderson works as a ballperson during a tennis match at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in New York.

Frank Franklin II, Associated Press

NEW YORK — From his hospital bed, Angelo Anderson could see the wheelchair, the cane and the walker with the tennis balls on the bottom.

He told himself he would ditch them one by one to walk out on his own, after bullets shattered the bones in his upper leg and arm in Afghanistan.

This week, he will do far more than walk at the U.S. Open — just over three years and hundreds of hours of physical therapy since the Navy corpsman was shot. Anderson will sprint across the court on that titanium rod that runs from his knee to his hip. He will throw the ball to players using that arm reinforced by a titanium plate. He will kneel next to the net on that leg he once couldn't bend past 45 degrees.

From the stands at the year's last major tournament, Anderson won't look much different from any other ballperson, other than that he's a bit older than many at age 24. Only up close do the deep ripples of scars peek out from his uniform on his right bicep and thigh.

Tattooed on his leg is the date of his injury in Roman numerals. On his arm, the signature of the surgeon who gave him a chance to run and throw again.

Anderson stands out in other ways. At ballperson training, as the group was lectured on the importance of staying hydrated, he chimed in to explain the scientific reasons that eating is also crucial.

Anderson didn't follow tennis much before he was offered a chance to try out for the Open. He's been getting more and more into it ever since.

He played basketball and ran track while growing up outside Atlanta, never considering the military as a career. But a few months after graduating from high school in 2007, slogging through a temp job, Anderson met a recruiter through a family friend.

When he learned the Navy offered the opportunity of experience in the medical field right away, he joined up.

Anderson was working at the infectious disease clinic at the Naval Medical Center in Portsmouth, Va., when he received his orders to report to Afghanistan in December 2009.

He would go out on patrols with Marines, primed to render care should anyone be injured. They'd hear the chatter over his radio about other soldiers being treated and ask Anderson questions, things like what is a normal blood pressure.

"That in the long run actually saved me," Anderson said. "They had heard guys needing a splint. When it was time for them to treat me, it's not new to them. That actually saved my life."

Anderson has noticed that when other soldiers talk about the day their lives changed, "they always say, 'Man, there was something different.'"

Anderson doesn't feel that way about July 2, 2010.

"That's what got me — nothing seemed odd at all," he said. "If anything, it was supposed to be an easy patrol."

They were out talking to some local villagers when Anderson heard the first three-round burst of the AK-47.

He fell to the ground, some equipment digging into his throat. Anderson tried to reach to pull it away; his arm felt as though it was moving, but when he looked down at it, it was motionless, twisted in an awkward position.

He lay there as still as possible to not draw any attention and more bullets. For a half-hour.

"I was crying. I was frantic. I was talking to God, Jesus, everybody, all at once," he said. "The only thing I could do was wait."

The Marines, taking cover, didn't know if he was alive or dead. One finally reached him, his face calm as he said, "Doc, get up. Stop playing around."

Anderson told him, "I don't think I can stand."

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