“Well, your ankle definitely isn’t broken,” he says, looking back and forth between us. “You have a pretty bad sprain, though, I’m afraid.” He eyes my basketball uniform. “This happened playing basketball?”
I nod. I just don’t feel like talking.
He nods back. “Well, I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to play for a little while, Jimmy.”
My heart sinks, and I lay my head back on the pillow. I sigh as he goes on.
“It might be a week or so before you can walk normally again and without a limp. And from there, it’ll be another couple of weeks before you’re back at a hundred percent. But you’re young. You should heal fast. It’s only a grade one sprain. We only saw mild tearing of the ligaments, but like I said, you’ll need to rest it. No sports for a few weeks.”
I sit up again.
“I’m going to give you some exercises to do at home so you can build up your strength and lessen the risk of injuring it again.”
My mom is nodding quickly.
I’m still waiting on the part about playing basketball again.
“When can I play again?” I blurt out. My mom looks at me, and Mayra finally wakes up and looks around. She doesn’t say anything, but I think she knows what I just asked.
The doctor sighs. “You can go back to normal activity in three weeks. Not before.”
I let out a groan.
“This is important,” the doctor goes on. “Even though you may be able to put weight on it again well before then, it’s important that you wait that amount of time, or you could seriously risk hurting it again. And if that happens, you’ll be out longer. And possibly sustain permanent injury.”
I close my eyes. This can’t be happening. The season just started back up again. It’ll be almost over in that amount of time.
The team needs me. The coach.
Coach Blair. What am I supposed to do?
I’m not sure I can live without playing basketball that long. There’ll only be a few weeks left in the season by then. The spring signing period will be right around the corner, and I’ll just have come back from this.
Mayra comes over and holds my hand.
I hear the doctor stand up and start to head out. “The nurse’ll be in here in a few minutes with your paperwork and to wrap up that ankle for you.”
I hear my mom thank him.
It feels like the beginning of the end. And it feels like everything is over before it even began.
That Monday, the first thing I do is head to the coach’s office. The doctor had offered me a set of crutches, but I refused to use them. I was finally gonna bring up again to my parents how I really need a car, but no way they’ll get me one now until my ankle is back to normal. I sigh and head up the stairs of the catwalk to the gym.
I still can’t put much weight on my ankle, so going up the stairs while carrying my backpack is not easy. I’m about to land on my ass when someone grabs my arm.
I look to see who it is.
“Need some help there?” Ryan asks.
I nod. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Are you heading over to see the coach?” he asks, grabbing my bag for me and making sure I keep myself steady. It’s a slow ascent up the stairs.
“Yep,” I say. “I need to tell him I won’t be able to play for a while.”
Saying it out loud sucks. It means it’s true. This isn’t all a dream or a horrible nightmare. I actually can’t play for almost a month.
By the time, we’re at the gym, we’re both shivering from the cold. The freezing wind bites at my face.
Ryan opens the door, and we head in. As we’re about to reach the coach’s office, I turn towards him. “Mind waiting here a second? Or do you have to get to class?”
He glances at the floor. “I can wait. I’ll help you get to class. I’d hate to see your ass fall down all those steps.”
We laugh. I’m glad we’re finally back to being ourselves. Ryan hasn’t missed any more school or practice.
“Thanks, I guess.”
I walk the last few steps to Coach’s office and knock a few times. I look inside the glass window beside the door. He’s at his computer. Classes haven’t started yet. My mom insisted on dropping me off today, but I had asked to leave early so I could do this.
Coach looks up at me and motions me to come in.
I open the door and walk in. I feel like a different person, and it takes me a few seconds to look the coach in the eye.
“Hey, Jimmy, how are you feeling?” he asks. “Take a seat.”
I do. I look at my ankle. “I’ve been better.”
The coach nods. “I bet.” He sighs. “So what’s the verdict?”
I sigh right after him. “Three weeks.” I study his face for a reaction
The coach nods but frowns. “I expected as much.”
There’s silence as we both think about what this means for the team.
“Coach, as soon as I can, I promise I’ll be back on the court—”
He raises his palm. “You take all the time you need. The last thing we need is you hurting yourself again.” He pauses, looking at his desk. “We’ll make do without you. It won’t be easy, I’ll admit. You’re my best player. You try harder than anyone else.”
His words spark a small light inside me, but it’s drowned when I realize how long it’s going to be before I’ll be out on the court again.
The coach goes on. “The rest of the team will have to pick up the slack. It won’t be easy. But I think we can hang in there until you can come back.” He looks up at me, with a small smile on his face.
I nod. “I’ll still come to practice—“
“You don’t have to do that. You need to rest.”
“Naw, coach. I want to. I need to. I can help. I’m still on the team, so I’m going.”
Coach Rogers shrugs. “It’s up to you. But don’t think I’m gonna let you back on the court until you’re ready. You’re right. You’re part of the team no matter what, but let’s focus on getting that ankle in proper working order, huh?”
I nod. “Okay, Coach.”
“And son?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Keep your head up. Don’t give up now.”
I don’t nod. The bell rings, and I head to class.
Ariana’s face pops up on my iPhone. I’m in bed. I tap the green icon even though I don’t feel like FaceTiming right now.
It’s been a week, and no basketball is killing me. We started studying poetry in Language Arts today, and the teacher asked us to write a poem with three lines. I forget what it’s called. Mine had been:
Basketball is life.
Basketball is my life.
I love basketball.
The teacher had called on me to read my poem out loud.
“Uh, that’s a really great poem, Jimmy,” he’d said. And then quickly called on someone else before the awkward silence became even more awkward. I heard one kid in the back snicker.
Now it’s Ariana who looks like she feels sorry for me. I can see her lying down on her stomach on her dorm bed. I can see her desk in the background. It’s piled with books and notebooks.
“What’s up?” I ask. I don’t even try faking some enthusiasm. My life sucks.
“Hey,” she says. “How’s your ankle feeling? Sorry I wasn’t able to come down there. But I did get an A on that exam I told you about.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah,” she says. It’s pretty clear neither one of us knows what to say. When did that happen?
“So are you getting around okay?”
I nod.
“How’s your walking?”
I sigh. “A lot better.” I carefully twist my ankle in a circle as I tell her. I’m hoping I can run and jump again in a week or so.”
“Didn’t the doctor tell you three weeks?”
I shrug. Ariana bites her lip and looks away.
“How are your grades?” she asks finally. “Did you get all those
college applications in on time?”
“Yeah, I’ve had plenty of time lately now that I can’t play. I turned them in the other day. And I have Bs and a couple of As.”
“That’s good.”
“When are you coming home?” I ask. I don’t want to talk about college anymore. If I don’t end up getting recruited, then I’ll just go here and keep things simple for me and Mayra. At least that one good thing would come out of it, but it still sucked submitting my UGA and other applications knowing there’s like a 95% chance I won’t go there. No way I’m gonna get some big fancy scholarship like my sister.
Ariana opens her mouth but doesn’t answer right away. “Um, I don’t know. Spring break for sure. Maybe a weekend before then.”
I nod. I expected as much.
“Sorry again I wasn’t able to come. I really wish I had.”
“It’s okay.”
More silence.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks. “You just don’t seem like yourself.”
I shrug. “It’s senior year, and I can’t play. Kinda sucks.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I just feel like I should be there, and I wish I could, but I have to be here.”
“I know,” I reply.
A few minutes later, I tell her I’m tired and say goodbye. It takes me an hour to fall asleep.
My phone buzzes, and I see a text from Mayra, but I don’t answer it. I don’t even pick up my phone to answer.
I’m outside, practicing putting weight on my ankle.
I can walk pretty easily, but I still can’t jump or run very well. Earlier, I put on my basketball uniform and shoes and headed outside. The day is really warm considering it’s still February, so I’m taking advantage and practicing on my own a bit before it gets dark. I had gone to practice today, but it just really sucked to watch everyone and know I couldn’t join in. The only thing keeping me going is the fact that I can be back on the court in another week or two. I try not to think about how many games I’ll have missed by then.
I practice putting weight on each foot, putting a little more weight on my right ankle each time. It’s still tender. I walk over and grab the basketball from the yard.
I walk to the free throw line. Minimum, I need to practice shooting every single day so I won’t completely suck when I go back to playing on the team.
Over the last two weeks, I went to all the games and watched from the bench. Technically, I’m still team captain. But Philip had taken over. I only helped the coach here and there with subs and plays. We’ve still only lost one game this season, so we definitely still qualify for a chance at the state championship this year if we don’t lose another one. Only one team from each county qualifies to go. Right now, we’re in first place, but the Eagles are right behind us. If we lose just one more game, and they keep up their recent winning steak, we’re done.
I shoot free throw after free throw until I’ve shot fifty in a row, and my stomach is starting to complain of hunger. It’s getting pretty dark too.
I don’t realize someone is behind me until I hear footsteps on the concrete. I turn around, wondering why I hadn’t heard a car. It’s Mayra.
I glance back at her house. She had walked.
“Hey,” she says. She has a hoodie on, and her hands are in the front pocket. I’ve only seen her once since I hurt my ankle. I know she’s been busy with school and work, and I’ve just felt like being by myself.
“Hey,” I respond, going back to shooting, this time from a different spot.
“How come you haven’t texted or anything?”
I can’t see her, but her voice comes out thin and high-pitched, like she wants to know but she doesn’t want to blame me.
“You’re busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”
There’s a pause, and the only thing I can hear is the sound of the ball hitting the backboard or rim and then bouncing onto the ground.
“Well, I know, but even when I texted you or called you, you didn’t answer.”
It’s true. What can I say? I just haven’t felt like talking.
How do I say that without sounding like a jerk?
“Sorry.”
I hear her take a deep breath.
“You’re gonna be back on the court soon. You know that, right? It’s just a matter of time.” She’s beside me now, looking up at me.
I shoot the ball, but this time I don’t go after it when I miss.
“Maybe, but I doubt I’ll get recruited now.” I make myself stop right there. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Or even think about it.
“You don’t know that—”
“Yes, I do,” I say, going over to sit on the porch. My ankle is starting to ache again, as if reminding me that my life is pretty much over.
Mayra stands in the same spot. I can feel her gaze on me, but I don’t look at her. I just stare at the ground.
“I know this isn’t easy for you, but you can’t give up. You can’t push me away like this just because you’re upset that you can’t play.” Her voice is loud now, accusing.
“Just leave me alone. Please.”
She finally walks away, and I don’t look up for several minutes, until I know for sure she’s inside her house. Then I keep shooting, ignoring the pain in my ankle.
Nine days later, I’m on the basketball court again, dribbling down the court.
I started playing a little at home with Ryan a couple of days ago. My ankle is getting stronger by the day, and I’m ready to be back on the team. I know it. I can feel it.
“Are you sure you’re ready to play?” Coach Rogers nods at my ankle.
“One hundred percent sure, Coach.”
He asks me to sit down on the bleachers and he twists my ankle this way and that.
“No pain?” he asks.
My mom had gotten onto me yesterday for playing because, according to the ER doctor, I’m supposed to wait the full three weeks, but she’d had a smile on her face at the same time when she saw I was enjoying myself for the first time in weeks.
And finally getting my appetite back.
Now the coach looks up at me. “Seems like it’s healed nicely. I think you’re ready to get back out there. Doctor said it was fine?” He waits for me to answer.
“He said two, maybe three weeks,” I say.
He nods and stands up. I do the same. He probably knows I’m full of crap, but if I feel fine, who cares? I’ve been doing all the exercises.
“Just go easy on it at first to be sure, but I’m glad to have you back.”
I finish warming up with everyone else and begin running stairs.
I have no idea if Mr. Blair will still be interested in me. He hadn’t been happy to see that I was injured, but maybe there’s still hope for my basketball career. The coach is yelling at someone, but I don’t hear him. My mind is going a million miles an hour. Today is Wednesday. Our next game is Friday. I’m back.
I’m captain again. Mr. Blair will see I’m just as good as before. No, better.
I’m back.
Seven
I look at the scoreboard. We’re losing by twelve points, and I’m not on the court. For the first time in my life, I do not like Coach Rogers. I’m captain again, and the coach put me in in the beginning of the game, but I played for less than three minutes.
“Coach, please put me in. I can play. The doctor said I was fine. I can play.”
It’s the second quarter, and we’re playing another hard team. But they’re definitely not as hard as Westview, and we’d managed to beat them. If we don’t beat this team today, we are not gonna qualify for the state championship tournament in March. It’s only three weeks away, and we can’t afford to lose our first place spot now.
“Not yet, Jimmy.” He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the game, and so am I. I had started practicing again as soon as I knew my ankle could take it. I had given my all. I still needed a little bit more time
to get back to where I used to be, but I can help right now. I can help bring the team back. We can still win.
I glance at the other players on the bench. I’m the only starting player not on the court right now. Ryan glances at me as he runs from one end of the court to the other. He’s wondering the same thing.
Why I’m not out there.
I want to tell the coach again to put me in, but I can tell I’m getting on his nerves.
At halftime, the buzzer sounds, and each team walks to their locker room. We’re down fifteen points, and we’re running out of time to come back from this.
Ryan and the others drink some water and gather around the coach a few minutes later. The coach is standing at the center, and we’re sitting around him on the benches, sweat running down the faces of those who just got done playing. I sit as close to the coach as I can. I’m not gonna let him forget about me.
The coach gives the team a few seconds to cool off and catch our breaths. He looks down at his clipboard. “Okay, Jimmy, you’re in. Henry, take a break for now. You’re already at three fouls. I don’t want you fouled out. We might need you later. Jimmy will step in for now, taking Ryan’s spot. Ryan, you move to point guard.”
We nod. My hands are on my hips, and I look at him as he describes what we need to do next. “We’re leaving this section of the court wide open for them right now.” He looks up at us, right in the eye. “That needs to stop right now. Jimmy, make sure this area is covered. Ryan, help him if he needs it. Another thing. We need to make smarter passes. We shouldn’t be losing like this right now. Make smarter passes, shoot if given the opportunity, and do not let them shoot. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, along with everyone else. The coach is right. He’d taught us from the beginning that basketball isn’t about driving in, or shooting. It’s about passing.
“Good. Do that, and we can still win this thing.”
For the next eight or so minutes of halftime, he tells us what else we need to work on. Before he heads back out, he pulls me aside.
“I need 150% from you tonight, Jimmy.” I nod. “But don’t overdo it. The last thing we need is for you to get hurt again.”
All In (Changing Hearts Book 2) Page 8