“I sometimes wonder how to write
about happiness, how to describe joy. All I can say is this: I feel so happy
when I play basketball. Health scientists would probably say all I’m feeling is
endorphins and the pleasing effects they have on the mind and body, but I like
to think it’s more than that. I like to think that God put basketball on the
earth for me.”
I
wrote that in my journal over Christmas break, in the middle of my senior year
basketball season. I’d played the game since 7th grade, head-over-heels
in love with it ever since; I craved the challenge, both physical and mental,
that the game offered; I prided myself in outworking any opponent I came up
against. Our team sought to win the region championship that season, and put
ourselves in a good standing for the state tournament. We’d proved our
competitive abilities in the preseason, beating several notable teams. I looked
forward to what we could do in region games.
Christmas break ended, and we
returned to school for Winterim and basketball. Our team had four big
consecutive wins, then we faced rival Rowland Hall. I played poorly, to say the
least. I had three fouls in the first quarter, forcing my coach to bench me for
much of the game. I scored one measly point and eventually fouled out. Though
we sneaked out the win, I left that game feeling disappointed about my
performance. Where was my confidence, my head, my ability? I committed to
playing better. From that day on, nothing would deter me. Next up we played at
Layton Christian Academy, and I would be ready.
When I arrived at LCA, I never
expected the trial I would soon face. The competitive game went back and forth,
until the third quarter, when LCA began to pull away. In the fourth quarter, we
fought to come back, even coming within four points. But it wasn’t enough, and
our defense crumbled under LCA’s press break. They lead by 8 with one minute
left.
In the final seconds, I chased a
quick LCA point guard dribbling down the court. Vowing not to let her blow by
me as she had minutes earlier, I hustled to keep up with her, thinking she was
heading straight down the sideline. However, she suddenly crossed over towards
the center of the court. In attempt to stay with her, I planted my left foot
and sprung to my right. But something went terribly wrong. My leg twisted, and
my right knee bent outward. I collapsed to the floor. No pain, not even fracturing
my fibula in a soccer game five years earlier, compared to the searing pain
that ran through my entire leg at that moment. No one said it, but I feared the
worst: I just tore my ACL.
A few days later, an MRI scan
confirmed that fear. The Anterior Cruciate Ligament in my right knee was
completely severed. It would require extensive reconstructive surgery and
months of rehab. I wrote in my journal, “Sometimes, God does weird things to
us. In the scriptures that is phrased, ‘God works in mysterious ways’. I am
finding that to be true. . . Everything changes.”
The wake of my injury carried
devastation. I cried myself to sleep many of those first nights. I attempted to
drown out my sorrow in music, listening to certain songs on replay, ten times
over, just to create noise that would overpower my worried thoughts. I avoided
looking at myself in the mirror, because seeing my swollen eyes made me cry
even more. “It’s almost impossible to not think about [my knee],” I wrote. “I
can attempt to distract myself… but one glance at my brand new basketball
shoes, the ones I got for Christmas, and I’m in tears again. The physical pain
is significant, but the emotional pain is crushing.”
Not only did sorrow overcome me,
but fear as well. “Everything gets worse when I take myself out of the here and
now. Like the minute I start imagining what senior night or our basketball
banquet might be like, (morbidly emotional, probably,) I cry. . . It’s like,
I’m not just crying for the girl on her bed in a knee brace. I’m crying for the
girl who has to go and watch her teammates play without her, I’m crying for the
girl who will miss the rest of her senior season, who won’t even play in her
own senior night.” Suddenly the end was upon me, sooner than expected. I would
never play high school basketball again, and the thought horrified me.
But along with sorrow and fear came
unexpected courage and strength. “Though I can’t physically play with [my team]
anymore, I’m still every bit a member and a captain of that team. I have to be
able to switch my mentality a little and say, hey, I can’t run or walk, but I
do have two good hands and a voice and a smile. I can offer my energy and
passion and encouragement. I can be there to every game and every practice
giving my heart from the sideline. It’s gonna be different, but it’s gonna be
okay.”
In those first few weeks, I found
incredible comfort through the gospel of Jesus Christ. I prayed like I’d never
prayed before; never had I felt so close to God. Many nights, I opened my bible
and scanned the New Testament for highlighted verses that offered peace. The
words of Christ never disappoint. I found my faith and testimony building. “God
is the Master Physician. He will heal broken bodies, He will heal broken souls.
I do not doubt His love; it is unfailing. I have felt it to an extreme degree
the past few days. He has kept His promise, that He would not leave me
comfortless, but that He would come to me.”
Aside from the gospel, nothing
healed my broken heart like being with my team. I appreciated being with people
who didn’t have to ask what happened to me. They wrote me cards that I read over
and over again; they visited me at my home the day after my surgery; they
cheered for me when I came into the gym. They will never know how many times I
cried tears of gratitude for their support.
I
discovered purpose and joy in my newfound role on the bench. I cheered hard and
lived for basketball. I never stopped loving the game. In fact, my appreciation
grew as I observed my coach and learned more about the technical aspects. Even
though I couldn’t play, I did my best to serve my teammates and lead from off
the court. “I’m beginning to realize how important it is that you believe that
your contribution is worth something, that you are needed.” Following the
season, I wrote in my journal, “I can honestly say that I loved every minute of
basketball even after my injury. The pain of losing my ability to play never
exceeded the joy I felt when I was at practice or games. I looked forward to
them all the same.”
Our
team did not win the region title, but we did go to state as a third seed.
Despite losing in the first round, the state tournament of my senior year was –
and will forever be – a treasured moment in my life. In the final minutes of
that game, my coach subbed me in, knee brace and all. Our opponents graciously
allowed me to stand beneath the basket and get two layups – the last points of
my senior year - before the final whistle blew. The crowd erupted, chanting my
name. Right then I felt something that I’d never felt before, and honestly
doubt I will feel again. My teammates and coaches hugged me tight, then we headed
down the long tunnel of cheering students for the last time.
That was ten months ago. Today, I’m back running and playing
ball, but the emotional pain hasn’t fully healed. I think about my knee every
day. I still hurt, a lot. I still feel ashamed that I injured myself in the
final seconds of a loss. For a long time I felt like I disappointed many
people, and it still bothers me that I can’t go back and fix things. I hate
having to live wondering what could have
been, had I stayed healthy. I hate that it ended so soon, that I never got the
chance to finish.
I can’t say that I wouldn’t go back
and reverse what happened at LCA that night; I guess I’m not to that point yet.
But I am amazed at the good that
followed my injury. I gained a passion for sports medicine, I learned how to
heal a knee, I attained greater compassion for other athletes experiencing
injuries. My respect for my parents grew enormously. I felt loved and supported
by my school. I learned how important it is to contribute your best effort,
whatever that may mean, to your team. I strengthened my relationship with God.
I found meaning in vulnerable moments, like crying in public, hobbling around
on crutches, and asking for help. I was humbled, which was something I really
needed. And today, I can look back and with confidence say that it was worth
it. Even when our fears become realities, good can arise. Life does not have to
be perfect to be good. So when you find yourself in the midst of a trial, take
courage. “Don’t you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and
happiness ahead. You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust
God and believe in good things to come.” (Elder Jeffrey R. Holland)
Andi
Decker
