“Tag her! Tag her!” the opposing team’s coach screamed to the other players on the entire field, who didn’t know what to do.  I attempted to crawl back to second base, but I could not reach my destination.  After I took my fall, it seemed as if the whole weight of the world was on top of me.  Cleats dug into the dirt, I lay on the copper field, unable to move, smelling the fresh dirt.  Seconds later, absolute darkness blanketed me.  Then everything looked blurry; my head spun in complete circles.  Shades of blue and green objects the size of giants stood up, staring down at me.  “I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to be hurt,” I wept while being carried off the diamond by my coach and my dad. 

My coach expressed, “You’re going to be fine, kiddo.”  Into the navy truck I went, leg throbbing and clear tears rolling down my face, as we pulled away, humming down the road.  My heart pounded heavily.  “This can’t be happening,” I pleaded while my dad drove to the hospital, one of the places I feared the most. 

It was my sophomore softball season when I viewed the MRI results that reported, “torn ACL and meniscus.”  While I clenched that single piece of paper, I froze, while my parents stared at me.  I needed surgery, taking me out of sports for about six months.  Six long months.  At first, I didn’t know how to feel.  I didn’t look forward to telling my coach the terrible news. My mind ran around in confusion.  Why did this have to happen to me? I questioned to myself.  During the off-season, I worked hard and prepared for a great year of softball.  Then, the tears exploded, falling on that now damp paper, which changed my life.  Will I ever stop crying? I worried.   Angry at the world, I didn’t believe this seemed fair to me.  I was a furious, dark storm, my tears like raindrops.  All those days in the frozen gym during the snowy winter or the days on the sandy field during the scorching summer, sweating under the steaming, blazing sun didn’t matter anymore.  It was difficult to watch my twin sister play the sport I loved, not only just my teammates.  No high fives after a great play or no praises of good games would be said to me the rest of the season, but I knew I still needed to cheer and encourage my teammates.   I stood on the side, outside of the chalked lines with my dusty crutches, wishing this hadn’t happened to me.

On the day of the surgery, I shook, not because of being cold but because of my nerves.  I had never experienced surgery before, and I didn’t know what to expect. I uttered to my mom, “I’m scared.” 

She replied, “You’ll be okay."  The drive to the hospital seemed like we were never going to get there.  The time on the radio clock froze.  As I looked out the car window, thoughts ran through my mind.  Three hours was a long time, but I couldn’t wait to get my knee fixed.  Softball called my name.  After getting into the hospital gown and being put asleep, I woke up and saw bright, amber lights with a ginormous brace on my leg and my knee thick, puffy, and swollen.  It seemed that it only took five minutes and not three hours.  The surgery went well, and I had a fixed ACL.  The next day, I heard a knock on my hospital door.  “Ready for your first day of therapy?” the nurse politely asked while smiling.  

Months and months of trying to stay motivated was one of the hardest aspects about recovery, especially since it occurred during the end of the school year and the summer.  I tumbled out of bed at seven a.m., headed to the clinic, and started my painful, harsh exercises.  People counted on me to work as hard as I could to get back into the grind.  Watching the softball games without playing and going to practice every day proved difficult.  I should be out there, I thought to myself.  Throughout this, I was thankful for many loving people: my family, friends, teammates, coaches, teachers, therapists, doctors, and God.  Without them, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this on my own.

After six long months of hard work, I am finally cleared to play the sports I love again.  To this day, four scars remain–scars that remind me of proud lessons I’ve learned.  When I hurt my knee, many people told me, “Everything happens for a reason,” but I did not know the reason at first.  Now, I do.  I am disappointed in myself for thinking this injury is the worst that could happen to me when others have it more difficult.  Some hopeful people don’t even get the opportunity to play sports or don’t have a chance to get better to be able to play sports again.  Other strong kids fight through horrifying battles like cancer and other diseases and could only dream to be throwing a softball or hitting a homerun.  Compared to others, my battle was different.  I recovered quite quickly, while others struggle for years.  I didn’t have any casualties and my wounds were fixed.   Not only that, but I discovered that hard work and dedication goes a long way.  Waking up before sunrise to gain strength and hoping for the day to hear the doctor’s words that I would be able to participate in basketball, made me push myself to my limits.  Overall, the experience of not being able to play made me a stronger person.  It was unfortunate for this to happen to me; however, I can see the bright, positive side of my injury.  It changed my life.  I took playing sports I love for granted, and now I know that I need to always play like it’s my final game.