Start of a new season. Anxiety levels higher than the tip top of Mount Everest, with anticipation threatening to rip my body apart bit by bit. Junior Varsity soccer, best thing since sliced bread. Yeah, varsity was always a lingering thought in my mind, but my main goal for the season was Captain. Sure enough, with the closing of the tortuous weeks of pre-season, the title of Captain was a no-brainer. Win after win, goal after goal, my plan of being a solid leader and top goal scorer was under way. Except for those two losses against Suffern and South, but 1) who doesn’t lose to Suffern’s soccer team and 2) South sucked in the hearts of everyone on the team and we would kick their asses the next time we played them anyways. Everything was going exceptionally well, until, you know, my season was cut short.

“‘Biggest game of the season,’” joked Coach Cooper as he nervously wiped his hands on his typical, plaid, game day shorts. Pearl River High School, 4:15, Home. The row of the schedule was engraved in my mind, top team in the section. Everyone stood in a huddle before the game as Cooper announced the line-up. The wind was strong, ponytails slapping each other, sweat already dripping, nervous foot tapping, stakes were high.

“North on 3, North on 3, 1 2 3 North!”

Game time. From the second the whistle was blown and the ball was touched, I was off to the races, fighting for possession. Throw in, pass, run, corner, foul, fall, get up, keep going. It was a normal game, pressure a bit higher, but overall, the regular hoopla. The ball was coming down to our offensive side and a gust of determination whacked me right in the face. I was going to find the back of the net.

As fate worked its magic, I crashed down onto the ground. Nothing unusual for me however, I’m known for being able to take a hit and bounce back. I recovered immediately and went back into position, feeling a slight pain, but not anything alarming. Once I finally came to my senses, it struck me that my left hand was about the same size as when a four year old blows up a rubber glove. Not pretty. But, since I’ve enjoyed a couple of jammed knuckles before, I simply walked over to coach and asked him to pop my hand back into place. Crazy, idiotic even. Cooper denied my wish of adjusting my bones back into place and called in the trainers. Every athlete's worst nightmare was casting its shadow upon me. Adrenaline still pumping out of my ears as I bickered with Danielle, our school trainer, and coach to let me back on the field. Little did I know, I wouldn’t play another game of high school soccer on that pitch again.

After countless sets of x-rays and different medical opinions, in two days I was going to be put under the knife. Expectedly, there were tears, many, many tears. And hey, maybe I was overreacting, but my livelihood as a fifteen-year-old athlete was snatched away from me (temporarily of course). Hospital for Special Surgery would be the destination of my certain death...operation. Nothing too serious, an hour and a half surgery at most, but after 13 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy, I was ready to start calling the funeral homes.

Following my 14-hour experience in a waiting room, without any food because the doctors obviously don’t want you to choke and collapse on your own vomit while a scalpel was inside your hand, it was time for my operation. Four screws and a crap load of drugs later, I was in recovery. Still, two months later, my drug induced Snapchat stories have to be one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. When my mom was finally able to take me home, it was lights out.

At home there were tons of “Get Well Soon” and “Thinking of You” letters. Honestly, they pissed me off the more they came. Of course I was grateful for such a strong support system as I was healing, but I resented the constant reminder that my season was ancient history.

“How’s the hand?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Are you able to play?”
“No, not yet, hopefully soon.”

I had to have that conversation about a billion times during the two months in a cast.

As I went through the stages of grief, denial was ever present. I was convinced that two weeks post-op, I would be able to play. Excitedly, I told my team and coach (actually anyone that would listen) that I was coming back. But, when I went back to the hospital for my check-up, of course I was given the news I didn’t want to hear.
My goal, throughout this whole experience, was to remain a strong leader. However, with the start of every game, still came the lingering pain that I wasn’t on the field. I was not about to wallow in my own despair and give up on the team entirely, there had to still be an impact I could imprint on them. Little things kept my hormonal teenage girl mind sane when I was on the sideline. Whether it was coach purposely leaving the cones near me so I could put them out for drills, or being ball girl, staying involved was insanely beneficial for my healing; not just physically, but mentally.

Coming back from a sports injury can be remarkably hard when you’re devoted. From my exposure to injury, mental recovery is way harder than physical recovery. Still, I wonder what my season could’ve been, but as said before, grief has stages, and I am now in acceptance. Sure it may sound like I lost a beloved family member, and if I were the one reading this I would undoubtedly think that the writer was being excessively dramatic and craving sympathy. But, going through this experience I’ve learned that sometimes it’s okay to be selfish and overly emotional. And now, being able to play once again, I’m able to look back at it and realize how amazing the season was, even though I played starting left bench.