It was a cold December day in San Francisco. The icy breeze made my eyes water. I clutched my scarf tighter, anxious to preserve the warmth I had left. I continued my trek to school. As I got closer, the faint scent of coffee wafted through the air. The beverage is vitally important to almost every teacher. Without it, they would be too groggy to give ranting lectures and assign piles of homework. On normal days, I would be walking with my best friend Sammi, but things had changed recently. For the past two weeks, Sammi had come up with a new excuse to explain why we couldn’t get together. The excuses started simple enough, like sleeping in or forgetting homework, but her unwillingness to walk with me became more obvious as the excuses continued to pile up. I’m not sure why.
My full name is Alexandra Chase. I just go by Alex. Anyone who calls me by my full name gets my deluxe death stare. Cheesy, but effective. I have emerald green eyes, long chocolate colored hair, and a mad love for sports. Volleyball, basketball, soccer, you name it. I play them all.
I continued to walk forward, the unforgiving wind threatening to push me back. When I got to school, I heaved my bulky backpack into my locker, took out my class materials, and made my way to math.
I found myself dozing off in the middle of a lecture on quadratic functions. Why is this stuff even taught to middle school students? Will this ever help me in life? My overcritical thoughts were interrupted by a dull monotone ring.
“Saved by the bell,” I muttered, as I shouldered my bag and left the stuffy classroom. It was time for the best class of the day. Physical education.
“Hup! Hup! Let’s go! Let’s go!” The shouts of my P.E. coach rang throughout the field as he chanted and blew his whistle. I was lucky enough to get Mr. Ray, the toughest coach at school. While other students groaned through every workout and run, I always enjoyed them. Sports was my thing.
“Alright cupcakes! It’s time for long jump!” yelled the the coach. His volume was roughly equivalent to that of five megaphones.
The class slowly made their way to the field and towards the sand pit. I had never really done long jump before. I had seen it on TV and all, but I was still fairly new to it.
The coach stood at the edge of the pit. The class lined up on the black tarp leading to the sand pit.
“When I call out your score, please record it on the paper below.” Mr. Ray gestured to a rickety wooden clipboard that looked like it was going to disintegrate any minute. I watched kid after kid run and take their shot. The coach called out their scores.
“8.”
“7.”
“9.”
“11.”
Wow. How was I going to beat that? I stepped up to the tarp. I took a deep breath. Then I ran. By the end I was at a full sprint, my arms pumping and my legs in a perfect stride. Then I jumped. For a moment I felt like I was flying. Then my moment of grace ended when I hit the sand face first. I coughed and gagged as I spit out the dirt and dusted myself off.
“13.” the coach said.
What? Had I heard that correctly? I was new to this! I had never done anything like it before, but here I was with the top score. I was overjoyed. I knew this would make my top ten list of best moments. I would always remember the cheers from my classmates, the smile on the coach’s face, and the odious taste of sand on my tongue. I couldn’t wait for track and field season!
The days passed slowly, with homework, tests, and lectures. The only thing keeping me alive was sports. Finally, finally, the track signup sheet was hanging in the breezeway. I grabbed a pen and scrawled the name Alex Chase on the sheet. I was the first one on the list.
“Hey, Alex!” I turned and saw my friend, Sammi, jogging towards me.
“Oh, um, hi,” I replied awkwardly. Sammi hadn’t said much to me for a while. But I shrugged off my discomfort and ran to greet her.
“So, track and field?” Sammi asked.
“Yeah.”
“I heard about your long jump episode,” marveled Sammi. How had she heard about it? Sammi wasn’t in my class.
“It was nothing,” I said in a desperate attempt to be humble.
Sammi smiled. It was her old smile. One that we used to share every day. She signed her name under mine in flawless cursive writing.Whatever.
“See you at practice,” she said. She jogged off.
The first practice started a week later. I sat in the humid gym, jam packed with sweaty kids. My nostrils flared at the acrid odor. I sat next to Sammi as we listened to registration details.
“What are you going to try out for?” Sammi asked me at the end of practice.
“Long jump, 100 meter, and hurdles.” I said. No doubt in my mind.
I had made all the teams. Sammi had joined triple jump and shotput. I’m pretty sure she tried out for hurdles too, but she didn’t make it.
Before I knew it, I heard the track coach make an announcement during practice.
“The first away meet is taking place tomorrow. Please get there half hour early to warm up.”
The next day, I sat on a stiff leather seat on the bus. My heart was beating loudly in my chest. I could feel my stomach twisting knots. I tried to take a deep breath, but it came out as shaky as an earthquake. I continued to inhale the metallic stench throughout the bus. Ten minutes later, we came to a jolting stop at the curb. Kids streamed out the bus, anxious to warm up.
I got out of the bus, only to get hit by a blinding ray of sunlight. Squinting my eyes, I made my way to the field. I set my Nike drawstring bag on the ground, with my shiny track spikes and a green iPhone 5C. I pulled off my running shoes, laced up my cherry red spikes, and tied my hair back in a tight ponytail. I checked my phone. The time was 3:30.  Oh no! My event was going to start soon! I had to warm up. I hastily stretched my legs, but not long enough. I ran to the track.
I stood in line behind the other hurdlers trying to get their last minute practice in before their event. Finally, it was my turn. I took a deep breath. I had done this a million times.
I sprinted to the first hurdle and jumped. I extended my lead leg all the way out, my back leg trailing behind me. For a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. In mid air, I felt my leg twist jerkily. Then time sped up and I crashed to the ground. My leg felt numb at first. Then a searing pain spread across my knee, like someone had taken molten metal and poured it on my leg. Tears filled my eyes as I forced myself to breathe evenly. I was surrounded by coaches and students, but my vision was hazy. I tried to stand up, but the pain pulled me down, holding me firm. Questions ran through my mind. What went wrong? What would I do for the next meet? Would I be able to play sports again?
Three hours later, I sat on my couch with an ice pack on my leg. I had just made my mom drive me to the doctor’s office after the incident. After several X-rays and an MRI, they told me that the injury may be serious and examination results would be given to me via phone call. I tried to cheer myself up with a bowl of chocolate ice cream and episodes of Tom and Jerry. But the ice cream, usually sweet, was bland, almost bitter in my mouth. Even the part when Tom slapped Jerry with a fly swatter failed to make me laugh. It was almost like they had lost the power to boost my happy meter.
The next morning, I wore my favorite Cleveland Cavaliers hoodie and a pair of faded skinny jeans. I pulled on a black brace given to me by the doctor yesterday. I limped to the door, wincing after every step. I then grabbed the crutches leaning against the wall and started to walk, or “crutch” to school. I didn’t bother to ask Sammi to walk this time. I had a feeling she wouldn’t stick with me the entire trip.
The school day passed with a lot of “What happened?” and “Are you okay?”, not to mention the mournful and pitying looks of my classmates. A curly haired boy, whom I had never seen before, asked me,
“What did you do to your knee?” I stood in the corner, next to the lockers, attempting to avoid the bustling traffic of students.
The truth was, I actually didn’t know. So I just responded,
“I uh, pulled my hamstring.”
“Oh.” he said, clearly not knowing what that meant. His eyes glazed over and he turned around and disappeared into the packed hallway.
After school was over, I walked back home in despair. My armpits were sore from pushing on the crutches so hard and my knee continued to throb. I got home and flopped on the couch. I was bored out of my mind. I called up Sammi. It was worth a shot.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end. My heart skipped a beat. I was so surprised she answered my call, that I almost dropped my phone. 
“Hey Sammi,” I responded. I tried not to sound too excited.
“Oh hi Alex! Whatcha doing?” I could envision Sammi in her house, eating her favorite salty pretzels while talking to me.
“Um...actually, I called to see if you wanted to meet me at Starbucks?” I rubbed my sweaty palms on the couch.
Sammi hesitated on the other end. I was almost certain that she would make up another excuse, but she surprised me once again when, she responded,
“Yeah, I’ll be right over. I’ll have my mom pick you up, since you can’t walk or bike.”
“Ok cool. See you soon.” I said, before ending the call. I tossed my phone to the side.
I couldn’t believe Sammi had agreed to go with me. Maybe she felt sorry for me. Maybe she had nothing else to do. But a small part of me hoped that she agreed to come because we were best friends.
After getting a ride from Sammi’s mom, I found myself staring at the Starbucks cashier. He had a thick brown beard and a benign face, like Santa’s younger brother. The shop smelled strongly of Java beans and the sounds of coffee grinders filled the air. Sammi ordered her drink.
“I’ll get a caramel frapp, easy on the sweetness, just three shots instead of 4.” Sammi was always picky. She was the biggest perfectionist I knew.
I ordered a green tea lemonade and a cheesecake brownie for us to share. We sipped our drinks silently. Then Sammi said,
“So, Alex. You got injured doing hurdles?”
“Yeah,” I replied bluntly.
“At least there’s an opening. Maybe I’ll try out.” Sammi responded, laughing. It was clear, though, she didn’t mean it as a joke. A flicker of jealousy passed through her eyes. Her smile, cold and calculating, gave me chills.
“No one’s taking my spot Sammi. I’ll be ready for the next meet.” I said, annoyed. Deep down I knew I would need some time to recover, but I refused to back down now.
“We’ll see about that!” taunted Sammi. I bit the straw hard to control my rage, but to no avail.
Something inside me snapped. I remember calling Sammi some pretty bad things. I remember the cashier’s concerned look. I remember the gust of cold wind I felt when the door was pulled closed behind of me.
I trudged home on my crutches, feeling the bruises on my armpit. I was friendless, injured, and angry. More at myself than Sammi. Why didn’t I see all those little signs before? Her stupid excuses! Why did I bother inviting Sammi to come? Ugh. Bottom line: I needed a nap. And a new best friend.
I got home and crashed on the bed. I yawned widely and fell asleep.
The next morning, I awoke with the sun streaming in my eyes and the obnoxious squawks of crows in the distance. I got dressed for school. I put on a Michigan Football t-shirt, Adidas sweatpants, and crutched to school once again. At least it was Friday. I promised myself I would celebrate after the day was over.
The sound of Bruno Mars’  “Uptown Funk” vibrated in my pocket. My ringtone. I fumbled around for my phone and answered the call.
“Hello?” I asked. The rush of cars surrounded me as I stood on the sidewalk.
“Is this Alexandra Chase?” said a woman’s voice.
I grit my teeth. I hated that name.
“Yes,” I said coldly.
“We’re calling from United Health Offices regarding news from your appointment the other day. Results show that you have torn your ACL, MCL, and meniscus. You will need to undergo surgery and months of physical therapy. A note excluding you from sports and other physical activities for two years will be delivered to you by mail.”
I almost dropped the phone.  No. No.  No. This had to be a nightmare.  It wasn’t real.
“Hello?” the lady said. I hung up without a word. Students continued to walk past me, oblivious to what I was going through. 
I just stood on the sidewalk for a moment. I couldn’t fathom the fact that I wouldn’t be able to do sports for a year. It just couldn’t be true. I finally mustered the courage to continue to my trek to school, biting my lip so I wouldn’t cry.
What was once my favorite class of the day was now torture. If anything’s worse than listening to blabby teachers, it's a class of doing nothing. I watched on the bench as a girl jumped over a hurdle. Her friends applauded. I needed a miracle. Without sports, I would never be able to have a complete life again.
“Please,” I whispered. “Fix my knee.”
No sports. No friends. No fun. What could possibly get worse?
Actually, it did end up getting worse. I later received news that I wouldn’t be able to have surgery anytime soon, due to my open growth plates. The surgeon didn’t want to take any risks. Great. Just great. That stupid surgeon. He was probably just chicken, and didn’t want to ruin his career. I hope he knew that he was ruining my life in the process.While walking back home, a thought occurred to me. I promised myself I would celebrate later today. So I decided that a few doughnuts wouldn’t fix my problems, but it wouldn’t hurt them either. I made a sharp turn and found myself standing at the polished mahogany doors of Dunkin’ Doughnuts. I entered the shop.
A blast of warm air hit me and gave me new found energy. My fingers, once numb from the cold, were now more flexible than ever. The smell of sugar made my mouth water. I ran up to the cashier and ordered my food.
Moments later, I sat on a smooth oak chair enjoying three doughnuts. One was the old fashioned glazed, with a crystal like coating of warm melted sugar. The other was heart shaped with pale pink strawberry frosting. The heart shaped sprinkles on it were prodigious. And last, but not least, was a beautiful creme pie doughnut, filled with silky vanilla custard, and embellished with smooth chocolate frosting. Mmm. I licked my lips. I was ready to dive into my fried glazed delicacy, when I heard deep coughing coming from behind me. I turned around.
I saw a boy, probably about my age, turning bright red. I ran over to help. I realized that he was reacting to something. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I quickly dismissed that thought and looked for something to help him. I ran to the back counter and grabbed a first aid kit. By now everyone had turned their heads to see what was going on.
I rummaged through the kit, and came out with Benadryl. I briskly poured some into a dosage cup and fed it to the hyperventilating boy. Slowly the color in his cheeks began to recede.
“Are you okay?” I prompted. The stares of the customers were hard to ignore.
“Fine,” the boy rasped. I poured him a glass of water. He drank it quickly.
“So you're allergic to sprinkles?” I asked, trying to hold in my laughter.
“No comment,” he said. I could see him turning red again, but I knew it wasn’t an allergic reaction this time.  
For the first time, I noticed the boy’s features. He had elfish ears and a pointed nose. His rich dark eyes went well with his mischievous smile. I noticed his back curly hair that stuck up in strange places. It was then when I had a sudden epiphany.
“You’re that boy who asked me about my leg!” I remembered, mainly because of his clueless look when I mentioned a pulled hamstring.
“And you're that girl with the injured knee,” he said, nodding at my brace.
No, duh.
“I’m Alex. Alex Chase.”
“Is that short for Alexandra, or-” He was cut short by my murderous look. The boy raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m Leo. Leo Rivera.” By now, everyone had turned back to their food, which was good, because being watched make me feel kind of awkward.
“Nice to meet you.” I said.
“Thanks for saving my life.” He acted like it was something he said everyday.
I nodded coolly. I acted like it was something I did every day.
“So,” I asked. “Want some doughnuts or something?”
I gave him my glazed doughnut and kept the heart one for myself. The last thing we needed was another sprinkle fiasco. We ended up sharing the last doughnut.
On the walk home with Leo, I found out that he really liked building things.
“I’ve been working with my hands since I was a little kid,” he told me. He had built several toys and trinkets for his little brother, Carlos. 
Leo was also the only one whom I’ve expressed my concerns about my injury.
“I can’t do any sports this year,” I told him. “I love sports. Without it I feel incomplete.”
He was quiet for a while, as if thinking about what to say. The silence stretched between us. “Well, um, bye.” I said walking away.
“Hey Alex,” Leo said. I turned around.“Sports aren’t everything ya know.”
I didn’t respond. I waved goodbye and walked inside my house.
I woke up on a Saturday morning and fixed myself some cereal and milk. I mulled over Leo’s words last night. Maybe he was right. There were a lot of other things besides sports. Art. Writing. Music. I was stirring my milk when I heard the mailman snap our box shut. I went to retrieve the mail. I tossed aside all the bills and letters. The paper remaining was a colorful flyer for an art exhibition. Participant’s paintings would be displayed at local sites throughout San Francisco. Why not give it a try? It’s not like I had anything better to do anyway.
I massaged my cramping hands as I observed my picturesque pastel painting of a sunset. Not bad if I do say so myself. I mailed off my beautiful work of art to the San Francisco Artistic Department, the host of the exhibition. Leo’s words began to float around in my mind. That few hours without sports wasn’t so bad. It was actually pretty fun. But I quickly pushed the thought out of my mind. What was I thinking? Sports was everything to me. There was no substitute for it. Right? My thoughts were clouded with doubt and self pity. But I knew I couldn’t act like this for much longer. I had to move on. That painting was an excellent first step. More energized than before, I fired up my computer and launched Adobe Photoshop. I altered a picture of Stephan Curry to make it look like he had furry donkey legs. I prefer LeBron James over him any day. I spent the rest of the day eating, reading, and attempting to make pancakes. I ended up burning half of them and almost started a fire. But hey, it only gets better from there right? Anyway, I had more fun that day than I had in a long time.
With each new activity, it slowly began to dawn on me that Leo had a point. He was right. Losing sports was only a minor setback. There are a lot of things I could do. Draw, read, cook, or the like. Thanks to Leo, I was able to understand the fact that sports should not control my life. And I realized that his words can apply to anything. If you make one thing the center of your life, you won’t be able to appreciate the world around you.