Picking Myself Back Up Anonymous

It’s 6am. My alarm clock squawks at me to wake up. With legs aching from practice, arms tired from shooting drills, and head throbbing with pain from only sleeping four hours, I squint at the illuminated red numbers, contemplating whether or not to hit snooze. But, somehow, I find the strength to get out of bed. Since freshman year, I have honed my offensive and defensive skills, internalized out of bound and sideline plays, and perfected my shots and dribbling moves. Game days are test days. This type of test may not cover problems on definite integrals, alpha glucose molecules, or the Adams-Onis Treaty; nevertheless, it assesses my deftness with the ball and how well I have mastered plays. The court is my haven. Even when coming to practice annoyed or stressed, I leave the gym refreshed and reinvigorated, ready to tackle seemingly endless schoolwork.

Squeaky shoes pounding the wooden floorboards fuel me to play aggressively. As I fastbreak down the court, I try to charge all the way to the basket, despite other players in my way. Suddenly, an opposing team member pushes me and we both tumble, resulting in my ankle breaking.

My injury thrusts me out of my haven. At first, I tried to look at the positives of my injury. Maybe...