Friday night my sister, Izzy, had basketball practice. Since my parents are taking full advantage of my school permit, they made me take her and wait until she was done. At the school, I am sitting with all of the Moms who were watching their daughters at practice. My friend Courtney was there because she had to take her sister as well. She was telling me about her most recent dating drama, and I was listening yet not fully caring. Then the coach yelled at both of us to come out on the court and play defense against the girls because they were learning their offense. Ironically enough, the coach was our coach from 4th-6th grade. Assist. Coach Carlson, Assist. Coach Mead, and Head Coach Stofer. (I wasn't allowed to call her "Momma" on the court.) We had a really good team, and as I stepped out on the court to help these girls I was reminded of how much I used to enjoy basketball. Back when I played because I wanted to play, and it wasn't very serious. I also thought about how it changed as I got into my 7th grade year. It got way more intense, and the only reason I played was because Momma was a basketball all-star in high school, and she wanted me to be like her. We soon found out that I was not going to be like her at all. It just didn't make sense to me.
The only reason I played basketball my freshman year was to please my mother. I loved our freshman/JV team.Looking back I realize and understand why I never got a lot of playing time... I was terrible. They only put me in when they needed to foul someone, or if we were winning by a lot. One of our first games was in Imperial, it was a JV game. There was 5 minutes left in the game and we were loosing by a lot, so they put me in. Their team stole the ball during our press and threw it all the way down the court to a girl that was ready to go in for a lay-up. I was the only Ogallala girl back there, so, naturally, it was my job to stop her. I stopped her just a little too hard. This poor girl was at least a foot shorter than me, so despite my not-so-fast running, my long strides helped me catch up to her. I jumped to grab the ball, but missed and grabbed her. We both landed on the court she landed on her face, I landed on my back with my ankles, knees, and hips all going every which direction. I was unaware of what just happened. I looked up to see two refs blowing their whistles and making the "Intentional Technical Foul" signs with their hands. My first thought was "Oh crap, coach is going to kill me." Two people helped me up. (I'm not sure who.) As I looked up into the crowd, all of the Imperial fans were shouting "That's intentional" "Get her out of here!" "She tackled her like a football player!" Despite my sturdy ankle braces, I managed to roll my bad ankle so I was gimping a bit. I gimped all the way back to the bench and coach never said a word to me. Teeyl, coach's daughter, was sitting there, so I asked her, "Did I get kicked out of the game?". She said no and that he only took me out because I was hurt. Thirty seconds later, he put me back in. That was the worst four minutes of my life. Basketball is a contact sport, so naturally, you're going to get knocked around, but these girls were being vicious. They had a good reason to be, I tackled one of their Varsity players like we were playing football. It was after this game that I realized that the only things I gained from basketball were injuries. This was also evident Friday night. As we were playing defense the girls, a ball shanked off of the rim and hit me right on top of my head. That hurt. Then, my expert rebounding skills (not!) got me a jammed finger. That stupid finger swelled up so bad. I couldn't even grip the steering wheel as I was driving home. This morning it looked even worse, I showed it to Dr. Stofer and she freaked out because she thought it was broken. But, we had it looked at, it's not broken, just jammed. The bad news it may have caused tissue damage, which means that my finger may look fat and ugly for the rest of my life. Wonderful. I see all of these women with dainty little hands, and I just have to wonder if they have ever done anything with their hands at all. How can someones fingers look that skinny and straight and perfect? I now have two fingers with tissue damage, so I will choose to embrace my man hands.
P.S. My fat and ugly fingers kind of reminded me of the story Mrs. Helzer told our English class last year about her thumbs! :)
P.S.S. I came home today to find the pleasant aroma of our wood-burning stove! Unfortunatley this means that it will be my job to bring in the fire wood to heat our home. Oh well, I'd rather carry in firewood than use a heater like normal families do. :)
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