My Shot

by Elena Delle Donne

  When I went to the doctor, I assumed he’d diagnose me with the flu. Instead he took a few tests and told me I had mono.

  “You’ll need to take a few weeks’ rest to recover,” he said. “So no basketball until this thing is gone.”

  My team was set to attend the Nike Tournament of Champions in Phoenix—where I’d broken the girls’ high school free throw record two years before—and I’d be forced to sit on the sidelines. But was I disappointed? I wasn’t. I felt a little guilty, but I was looking forward to the rest. There would be no pressure to be the best, no stress that I’d have to save the game, and no days and weeks of mentally and physically preparing myself to play against the most difficult teams in the country.

  I hope you don’t think I was abandoning my teammates emotionally. I wasn’t. I wanted badly for them to win, but I didn’t want it to be all because of me.

  I feel awful for being so selfish, I thought. But the doctor told me that my liver is having trouble and my spleen is enlarged. Right now I just need to think about me.

  When we lost every game in the tournament, though, I felt terrible. I beat myself up for not being able to play, and I hated myself for feeling even the tiniest bit of relief at getting to rest.

  For the rest of the season, I decided, I’m not going to think about myself. I’m going to play harder than I ever have, because everyone is depending on me.

  We won almost all of the rest of the season’s games—including having a fifteen-game winning streak—and I was on the floor for all of them. We won the state championship, I was named the top female college recruit in the nation, I played in the Women’s Basketball Coaches Association (WBCA) high school All-America game, and I was the first and only student ever to score more than two thousand points for Ursuline. Throughout every single one of those wins and honors, I forged ahead, thinking only about basketball, forcing myself to believe—with every bone in my body—that basketball was what I was put on this earth to do.

  After all, when I played it, everyone won—except for me.

  Chapter Seven

  Burnout

  When I graduated from Ursuline as the most decorated and celebrated student athlete in the school’s history, my entire family wasn’t there to see it. Gene didn’t come home from MTSU, and Lizzie wasn’t in the stands clapping for me.

  Why? Because I didn’t even attend my graduation. While my fellow classmates were shaking our headmaster’s hand and claiming their diplomas, I was on my way up to UConn, where I’d be starting summer classes and training with the women’s basketball team.

  Most of my family still lives in Delaware, and leaving them broke my heart. My dad had done well as a real estate developer, so at that point he and Mom had just purchased a house and some property outside of Wilmington. It was thirty-five acres, and Dad had brought home a golf cart for Lizzie to ride in. (And she loved it!) There was nothing I liked more than walking or riding with her outside when the weather was nice, letting her feel the wind blow across her face and through her hair. Wind and the warmth of the sun were two of the things that put Lizzie most at ease, giving her a connection to the outside world that most people take for granted. Because I had moved to Connecticut, I wouldn’t be able to see that smile on her face when she was outside, except during school breaks and family vacations. I wouldn’t get to feel her squeeze my hand, signaling she was happy.

  Instead of being home, celebrating the end of high school with my friends and family, I was walking away from a pickup game on my first night at UConn, and I was certain I never wanted to play basketball again.

  The morning after that initial scrimmage, I woke up early to get ready for my first class. It was an English class, and the teacher couldn’t have been nicer. She gave us an overview of what the summer semester would be like, and she handed us a syllabus and outline for our assignments, explaining that we’d have a paper due in two weeks. Then she began discussing the material that would be on our first exam.

  I lifted a pencil to take notes, then put it down.

  What’s the point of remembering any of this if I won’t be here for the next class?

  I’d made up my mind. I was going to leave UConn that night.

  On my way back to my dorm room, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called a friend who I’ll refer to as Pam.

  “Pam,” I said. “I need to go home. Can you pick me up?”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is everything okay?”

  I started to cry. “I just need to go home. I need to see my family. Please come get me.”

  The great thing about Pam was that she knew that if I said something as serious as I just had, I usually meant it—and there was no time to ask questions.

  “I’ll be there whenever you need me,” she said.

  I told Pam not to come until after midnight because I didn’t want anyone to know I was leaving. My roommate was on the basketball team too, and if I’d told her I was going home, she’d have thought I was crazy. No one—especially the top high school recruit in the country—walked away from a full ride at UConn, even for a day. I fully expected people to think I was insulting Geno and the whole program he’d built. I was ashamed, and I couldn’t bear to hear my roommate question me, or even try to persuade me to stay. I just wanted to get out of the state of Connecticut as quickly as possible and not answer any questions till I had my head on straight again. I wanted to get home to my parents, then explain myself later.

  After my roommate fell asleep, I quietly packed a bag. I figured I could just come back later and claim my larger items; right now all I needed were some clothes, my toiletries, and my computer. I’d even leave my basketball shoes in the closet. Why would I need them? I had no plans to wear them again soon—if ever.

  Just after midnight my cell phone vibrated. When I answered, Pam told me she was waiting outside in a parking lot. I grabbed my bag, took a deep breath, and looked around my dorm room.

  I might be making a huge mistake by leaving, I thought, but if I stay, it’ll be the biggest mistake of my life.

  Pam knew not to ask too many questions on the way home. She didn’t have to, though; I explained everything.

  “When the team captain said that the most important thing we could give to the team was passion, I made my decision. I can’t lie to her or someone as important as Coach Auriemma. I can’t play on the best team in the country and hate what I’m doing. I can work harder than everyone else, but if I’m miserable, I’ll fail. And the whole team will lose with me.”

  “Have you felt this way for a while?” Pam asked.

  “Since I was thirteen,” I said. “I’ve just been hoping it would go away.”

  The drive from Storrs to Wilmington was almost five hours, and Pam didn’t stop the whole time. She knew I was desperate to get home, so she drove like crazy, even when I nodded off and fell into a deep sleep. I think every muscle in my body was more tired than it had ever been in my life.

  We pulled up to the front of my house just as the sun was coming up.

  “Pam, I can’t thank you enough,” I said as I woke up.

  “I love you, Elena,” she responded. “And you’re doing the right thing. Call me later.”

  As she pulled out of the driveway, I felt my chest tighten. Even as I’d packed my bag, and even as I’d let my feelings of guilt and shame pour from my mouth on the drive with Pam, I hadn’t let myself cry. I’d decided I had to be strong. I had to keep moving until I decided what I wanted to do next. I had to keep myself from falling apart more than I already had.

  I walked to my parents’ front door and rang the doorbell, since I didn’t have a key. When it opened, my mom was standing there in her bathrobe.

  “Elena? What are you doing home?” She looked shocked.

  I dropped my bag, ran into her arms, and broke down in tears.

  PART TWO

  REBOUND

  Chapter Eight

  The Hardest Summer of My Life

  “Crazy.”
>
  “Spoiled little rich girl.”

  “Ungrateful.”

  Those were just a few of the things people wrote or said about me the summer after I left UConn. And those were some of the nicer words.

  My parents even had a hard time being understanding.

  “Basketball has been your dream since you were four,” my dad said. “Now you’re throwing it all away?” He had a developer’s brain, and he’d spent his life weighing decisions, making calculations, and building foundations. Tearing them down felt huge to him.

  “Are you sure you’re just burned out? It’s not something else?” Mom added. “Maybe you’re just not feeling well?”

  “I’m not feeling well,” I said. “Basketball is literally making me sick.”

  Eventually, Mom and Dad came around and realized how serious I was, but those first few weeks weren’t easy. They—and everyone else I’d grown up with—didn’t understand how someone as talented as I was, who’d worked toward a scholarship to a school as prestigious as UConn for so many years, could just walk away from it. They were terrified I’d regret my decision. Sure, some people, especially college kids who’d spent their high school years exhausted from too much homework and too many activities, sympathized with me, but others were horrified. After all, I’d been given something that most people can only dream of, yet I’d thrown it away.

  To be honest, sometimes I wasn’t even sure why I’d left UConn. Sure, I was tired and lost, but was that reason enough? I’d been born with a God-given talent, so wasn’t I supposed to do something with that? But then I would remember how I felt when I first saw Lizzie after I got home from UConn, when I walked through my parents’ front door and went into her bedroom.

  “Hi, Lizzie,” I said to her, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me. Suddenly she perked up, her eyes opening. She can smell me, I realized. Then I leaned down to her bed, lifted her up very slightly, and hugged her. Even though I could feel the bones in her frail back, she reached her arms around me and squeezed me tighter than she’d ever held me before.

  Does she know I’m not leaving again? I wondered, immediately realizing it was true. Lizzie had always been able to communicate with me through different kinds of touches, taps, and hugs, and I knew that a squeeze as tight as the one she’d just given me signaled that she knew I was home. For good.

  So Lizzie’s the real reason I came home, I realized right then. I’m just not going to be happy if I’m away from her. I can’t Skype her or text her, so this—and nothing else—is what we both need.

  The question remained, however, what I was going to do next. I’d spent so long doing what I assumed other people thought I should, that I knew I was going to have trouble making any kind of decision. So I figured I’d take it one day at a time. I’d go with my heart. And I’d make any next steps mine and mine alone.

  At about eleven a.m., just a few hours later, my cell phone rang. I looked down at the caller ID, and my heart stopped. It was a Connecticut number, and I knew it had to be Coach Auriemma.

  “H-h-hello?” I answered after three rings, my voice cracking.

  “Hi, Elena. It’s Geno Auriemma.” His voice was measured but kind. He didn’t sound angry, just a little bit concerned. “You didn’t show up at morning practice, and your roommate said you weren’t there and hadn’t left a note. Is everything okay?”

  I hesitated. “Umm. Well, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I could feel tears forming in the corner of my eyes, and I started to worry that I was going to break down again. Just then my mom walked into the room, and she sat on the couch next to me, then held my hand.

  “Sorry for what?” he asked. “Whatever it is, just tell me. It’s okay.”

  I suddenly realized I wasn’t going to be able to hold it together, so I handed the phone to my mom, who introduced herself and started talking.

  “Coach,” she said, “we’re so sorry, but Elena needs to be home right now. She’s not sure what she wants to do. She—and all of us—are so grateful for the scholarship and for everything you’ve done, but she can’t play right now. It’s too much for her.”

  “Has anything happened? Is she hurt or sick?” he asked.

  “No,” Mom said, “but she just doesn’t feel she can play basketball now.”

  I could hear silence on the other end of the line, and I hoped and prayed Coach Auriemma wasn’t angry. I knew he was probably shocked and terribly disappointed, but I didn’t want him to hate me. Instead he was just as calm and kind as he’d always been when he began speaking.

  “Mrs. Delle Donne, I’ve seen this before. Homesickness is completely understandable. So are nerves. But Elena is one of the most all-around skilled players I’ve seen in my career, and I’d hate for her talent to go to waste this summer. Even for a day.” He paused. “That’s why I encourage you to drive her back to Storrs as soon as possible.”

  My mom has always been able to read my body language better than anyone else. I always thought it was because of Lizzie. After all, when you have a child who can communicate only through touch and expressions, you begin to pick up subtle physical clues from them. At that moment, I’m positive that despair was written all over my face. With my arms crossed and my shoulders slumped, I’m sure I looked about as ready to drive back to Storrs as I was to drive to my own funeral.

  “Coach,” Mom said, clearing her throat. “I know my daughter. I’m looking at her right now. She has never given up on anything in her life before, but I think this time is different. Unfortunately, I won’t be driving her back to Storrs. But we will be in touch soon.”

  When Mom hung up the phone, I laid my head down on the table and started sobbing all over again.

  • • •

  Part of the reason why a coach like Geno Auriemma gets as far as he does is because he doesn’t give up. When UConn kept losing during his first season as head coach, he knew he could turn the team around, so he kept pushing them, telling his players they’d win the national title someday. Sure enough, they did, going from 4–12 his first season as coach to national champions in ten years.

  All that summer Coach Auriemma checked in with me every now and then.

  “We’re holding your scholarship till August,” he’d say. “And your place on the team, of course. We miss you.”

  But my heart was telling me to stay home. Home was safe. Home didn’t pressure me. Home didn’t think I should play basketball just because I was so talented at it.

  That summer my family rented a house in Stone Harbor, a town on one of the southernmost barrier islands on the Jersey Shore. I loved spending time on the beach, jumping in the waves, and standing in line for Springer’s super-delicious ice cream. We planned to vacation there for a few weeks, and I couldn’t think of a better place to unwind and forget about making a decision about my future.

  The only issue was that Coach Auriemma had a house in Avalon, the town north of Stone Harbor. His house was just a few blocks from my family’s rental, and he was going to be there the same time we were. I mean, what were the chances?

  It would be embarrassing and childish to avoid someone who’d been so patient and kind to me, so I called him before our vacation began and made a plan to visit him one day for lunch. No pressure, I told myself. You’re just there to talk.

  On a blazing hot summer afternoon in July, I put on a pair of jeans and a nice shirt, hopped on my bike, and rode up the island’s main thoroughfare toward Coach Auriemma’s house. I passed candy and fudge shops, stores selling shells and souvenirs, and kids walking with their families toward the beach. As I steered my bike into the street where his house was situated, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure what he was going to ask me, and I had no idea what I was planning to say, but I promised myself I’d be levelheaded and straightforward about it.

  Coach Auriemma’s wife, Kathy, greeted me at the door.

  “Hi, Elena. It’s so nice to see you. Come on inside.”

  I walked into their spacious, comfortable house, decora
ted with bright colors and family photos, and saw Coach Auriemma sitting in an easy chair. He rose to greet me, then pulled me into a hug.

  “I hope you’re having a good summer,” he said.

  “I am,” I said, “and it’s good to see you.”

  As Kathy put a few sandwiches on plates and made lemonade in the kitchen, Coach and I talked for what felt like hours. I asked him about the team and practices, and he asked me about my family. He told me about his plans for the upcoming basketball season, and I apologized for putting him in such an awkward situation with the athletic department and the UConn administration. He told me not to worry, that he’d talked to school officials, and they had a great idea.

  “I know you’re not interested in basketball anymore, so you can keep your scholarship and come back to school—yet skip the season.”

  My jaw tightened as I struggled to answer. “Coach, it’s not just basketball,” I practically whispered. “It’s so much more than that. I just can’t come back.”

  “We won’t expect you to practice or even go to games. We’ll leave you alone. The university just wants you to attend, no strings attached.”

  I looked down and clasped my hands between my legs. I hated saying what I was about to, but I couldn’t lie to him. Not again.

  “No. I can’t. Thank you for being so understanding, but I can’t go back.”

  He kept on. “I know it’s hard. Believe me. I can’t tell you how many students I’ve picked up off the floor year after year after year. But we don’t want to lose you. We—”

  Just then I saw Kathy emerge from the kitchen holding a pitcher of lemonade. She had a look on her face that was all business.