As the shot went up, I followed it with my eyes tensing and holding my breath with anticipation. I smiled inwardly once I recognized that their point guard was going to miss. Not even close! I chuckled to myself as I repositioned to receive the inevitable rebound. I battled the rival post; our bodies, sticky with sweat, colliding during the struggle.

I succeeded in outmaneuvering her to gain the advantage. Despite the fact we were the same height, I was stronger and have been overpowering her all night; this time was no different. Poor girl, she doesn’t have a chance, I thought as I boxed her out, pinning her behind me with my body. Realizing I had bested her again, she released a sudden howl of anger and frustration. Ignoring her irritation, I looked to the backboard, coiling my muscles in anticipation. As soon as the ball shanked off the rim I exploded upwards. With my arms reaching above my head and my body fully extended, I had just grasped the ball with my outstretched fingers when I felt the unexpected force of two hands shoving me from behind. My body’s trajectory was forced off course. I was moving too far to the left too fast! Holding the ball close to my chest, I glanced down. My stomach dropped and my eyes grew wide.

Oh No! Still recoiling from the blow, there was not enough time to right myself. There was nothing I could do I was already falling.

Upon impact my right knee twisted and buckled and I dropped to the floor. No! No! Something is very wrong! Seated, heart in my throat, I clutched my failed joint and trained my eyes on a spot on the floor, fighting back the tears that were already clouding my vision. My breath came in gasps. Through the tears, I could make out my coach rushing over from the bench to come to my aid.

After a few moments passed, I began to feel better, the fear subsided and my breathing returned to normal. Even my knee felt better. I begged my coach to let me stay and continue to play. It was still preseason and I wanted as much practice as possible before league. Besides, in all of my athletic career never have I once asked to come off the court or field because of an injury. Deaf to my pleas, Coach was adamant I sit and ice. Angry, I stormed off the court and walked without assistance just to prove that I could.

It turns out that was all the playing time I would receive for the remainder of the three-day tournament. Later, that night my knee swelled to the size of a softball and movement became so painful I was forced to use crutches. Soon after returning home, I went straight to the doctors for a diagnosis. My worst fear would be that I had torn my anterior cruciate ligament (ACL). Tearing my ACL meant surgery and months of rehab. It also meant I would miss out on the rest of basketball season, all of tennis, and the soccer season of the following year! I hoped and I prayed that all I had done was a simple dislocation or a patellar luxation. There was no way I could afford to have had an ACL tear. I was a varsity athlete in all three of my sports. My goal ever since I was little has always been to be a 4 year varsity athlete.
After taking a MRI, I waited to hear of the results with bated breath. The odds it was an ACL tear were low but I was still anxious to discover what the MRI showed. I received a call from my father during school and I knew he had the results. When I answered the phone my stomach fluttered from the butterflies and my palms began to sweat. He asked if  I was sure I wanted to hear the news even though it was during school. Knowing that I could no longer handle the anticipation, I confirmed that I did. I hear a sigh on the other end of the line and then the news. The horrible, awful, dream-crushing news. The kind of news that brought the sting of unwanted tears to my eyes. It was news that sentenced me to a over a year of pain, rehab, and the torture of watching my teammates from the sidelines knowing I was unable to join them. I had torn my ACL.

Needless to say, I went to third period with red eyes, a blotchy face and sat through class looking through a watery lense.

Two weeks later I found myself lying on my back squinting from the harsh lights in the operation room. Wires and machines decorated the clinical, white walls. People with matching blue masks and funny little booties bustled about in preparation for surgery. After waiting a few moments to take in the spectacle, I returned my eyes back the glaring light above my head to see a hand grasping a rubber mask descending upon my mouth and nose. I inhale the gas in deeply and count to ten as instructed. 1, 2 , 3…my eyelids begin to grow heavy. 4, 5, 6... blackness creeps on the edges of my vision. 7, 8, 9… I succumb to the darkness.

I went home the same day as the surgery and spent the following week in the most agony of my life. I was extremely sensitive to movement and didn’t get out of bed for days. I would cry when someone entered my room; the vibrations from footsteps on the floor would cause extreme discomfort and pain. But even my worst moments during that first week pale in comparison to the emotional and physical misery I would experience in the coming months.

I would eventually make a full recovery, overcoming the many obstacles and setbacks in my way, but nothing felt better then proving those who doubted me, including my physical therapist, wrong. I was a starting player on the varsity soccer team the following year. In hindsight, tearing my ACL was a blessing in disguise; it taught me determination and perseverance, and I am a stronger person because of it.