The Game Essay, Research Paper

While standing at the three-point line, the ball seemed to be in slow motion. Screams from the crowd came as the ball dropped through the net. Not only did this shot go in, but also dropped through the net with such force that it made a sound that was heard throughout the gym. The place was packed and the fans were on their feet, I had just hit my first three pointer of my varsity basketball career. As our team set up the press, sweat dripped from my face. My opponent was close enough that I could kiss her, but there was no way she was going to get the ball. She shoved me backward and planted her foot on mine, then pushed off and ran for the inbound. Falling back a few feet then sprinted towards my opponent. As the inbound released the ball with a firm push I stuck my handout in hopes for a steal, SNAP! The ball was deflected towards the right; the other team member ran and picked it up. Quickly looked down at my finger and with fear and pain walked over to the bench. My pinkie-finger on my right hand was at a ninety-degree angle, sweat dripped down my face I could feel myself getting hot flashes. My stomach seemed to drop and was beginning to feel as if on a roller coaster. The game had been stopped and they led me into the locker room and sat me down on a wooden chair. A shooting pain began to go through my hand, which was making itself known that there was something terribly wrong. My parents entered the room, mom carrying a face that I had never seen before. Father with a calm collective look to him. The assistant coach explained that we need to deal with this, either go to the hospital and miss the game or deal with it right in the room. Looking at my coach with eyes of trust and horror I placed my hand in his. Which by now was swelling and extremely painful, he then got a firm grip and with on quick tug my finger was now vertically correct. His eyes were bulging as he looked at me and asked how it felt. Being the starter point guard on my schools varsity team, there was no way I was going to leave the game. With a convincing nod and an energetic response, I was on my way back onto the court. My teammates snapped the ball quickly over to me and I caught it. Wanting to drop the ball and run to the sideline, instead I got rid of the ball as soon as possible. With a look of pain in my eyes, face the coach knew that I needed to come out of the game. While sitting there and watching my team lose the game, I could not decide which hurt more my finger or the fact that I was not in there helping my team. As the coach was screaming and yelling in the locker room, I could not help but think about my finger, the pain was now shooting up my arm. Each time I buttoned on my shirt, I would get a shooting pain, I began to believe that I should seek medical help, but I did not want to let anyone know how bad it hurt. Coming out of the locker room my father said, with a convincing tone of voice, that he was going to take me to the hospital.

Once at the hospital they led me into the examination room. Sitting on the bed the nurse asked to see my injury. She gently touched the finger. With a stare that made me nervous, she stated, this does not look good. Pointing out to me that the top part of my finger was twisted to the left. My knuckle was twice the size of any other one and it had a blue color to it, the kind of blue you see when you have been bruised very badly. The doctor walked in. He was a tall man with a thick mustache and thick brown hair. He opened his mouth and the words how did you do this? came out. In a basketball game, I replied and he then began to take a look at my finger. With a look of concern on his face he said, It looks as if you are going to need surgery. This would mean that I would miss just about my whole season of basketball. Me, the starting point guards out for the season. I looked at my father with hope and desperation that he would have some advice to give me. What could he say, the doctor had given his diagnosed and he was right. The Doctor proceeded with a stern convincing voice to say that my bone was shattered. I would have to have surgery to pin these bones back together; the process is going to take about two and half-hours. Standing at the three-pint line, I knew I was unable to play another game. Two weeks passed and I was still attending every practice and games, this was very hard for me because I was unable to play. The season went on and I watched from the sidelines. On the final game of the season I got my cast off but it was too late. I was unable to play because I still needed to go to physical therapy. My junior basketball season was lost, and I could never get it back. But at least I have my senior year to look forward too.