The final minute of the championship game ticks down, and the other team is coming toward the goal I was standing in. On a breakaway, Number Eight kicks the ball with an overwhelming force — too hard to catch. I put my hands up to deflect the ball as my wrist snaps back in agonizing pain. 

I know myself to overreact, so I dismiss it as a sprained wrist or another minor injury. I go to pick up the successfully deflected ball, and as I begin to propel the ball forward over my head to clear it from the goal box, the ball drops to the ground, causing a splash in the muddy water below. I collapse to the cold and wet ground, with tears streaming down my face. A buzz sounds throughout the stadium, giving me the all-clear to go over to the benches. Painfully recoiling myself from the ground, I get up to walk over and shake hands with the other team. To my relief, my coach pulls me aside as my teammates come up with shocked looks on their faces. Eventually, I hear rumbling and squeaking as the medical golf cart shows up to whisk me away to the medical tents. The sole thought going through my mind, and distracting me from the pain, is that basketball season starts the following week. 

Shaking myself out of that thought, I refocus myself on my surroundings. Sitting in a rigid blue chair across from my potential basketball coach, with goosebumps spread across my skin from the cool air in the Commons. Our deep blue-gray eyes seem to be in a staring contest, as we are holding uncomfortable eye contact. Rotating the paper in front of him to face me, he points out all the skill areas they are looking for. Although I cannot read most of his scribbled handwriting, I notice the dribbling category with an “8/20” scrawled in black pen. The shooting, passing, and defensive sections are not much better. I walked out of the building feeling deflated after being informed that I did not make the “A-Team,” whilst I did make the “B-Team.” It was very disappointing, for I had made the “A-Team” years prior. Even though he tried to soften the blow by saying to try again next year so he could properly assess my skills with my dominant hand, it frustrated me that an injury caused me to not make the team.

The season went on and so did I. Using my left hand at every practice and game was aggravating, to say the least. Although I must say, I felt that I was improving with my non-dominant skills. Around four weeks into the season, my team was having a scrimmage against the “A-Team.” I unwrapped a section from the giant roll of bubble wrap my father had purchased and wrapped it around my bulky cast — popping a few bubbles along the way. After doing so, my cast was securely wrapped so it wouldn’t hurt anybody if they were to collide into it. 

Snow laces the ground as I start walking toward the daunting steel doors into the elementary school. Walking through the dimly lit hallways that always seemed to have a yellow tint to them, my eyes passed over the team I longed to be on, then settled where my team was sitting on the small set of stairs. Joining my team, we discuss the game and what our strategies will be. My coach states, “Make sure to force them to their off-hand while defending to make it easier to steal the ball.” I think to myself how it’d be easy for the other team to do that against me, but in a reverse type of way — force me to my right, so I have to dribble with my left hand in front of them. 

Soon enough, shoes are squeaking against the freshly cleaned hardwood during the second quarter. Sitting on the bench for the first quarter was frequent. Almost as if I had called it, my unusable right hand was a massive hindrance during the game — forcing me to dribble right while being left-handed. At one point, I have the ball at the top of the key with Lily guarding me. I try to swerve around her to the left, as the paint is sparse. Only a second after I tried this move, she stole the ball from me — going down to make a layup. I had gotten a few good assists but no points — as I was not a post, and in no way could shoot left-handed from outside of the paint. Losing the game by a hefty 35 points diminished our team’s morale; but, it also urged me to become better at my left hand, so even in my current state, I could be an asset to the team. I worked hard in and out of practice — working on dribbling and shooting with my left hand, in the gym and in my driveway. During the end of the season, I was no longer in my cast but in a brace, and I had significantly progressed with my left hand. After my wrist was healed and I was in the basketball off-season, I continued to work with my left hand, as well as de-rusting my right hand.

It was my favorite time of year, yet this time around, my nerves were at an all-time high. My hands shook as I walked into the dusty gym that crushed my dreams the prior year. We start doing 1v1’s around the gym on six different baskets. I am paired up against Lily — she made the team last year. My mind remembers when I faced off against her in last year’s scrimmage. I start with the ball in my right hand and approach her, making a swift movement to cross the ball over to my left hand. One dribble, two dribbles … I get past her and the ball falls effortlessly through the net! This moment, although simple, is of huge significance to me and truly shows my improvement. 

The rest of the try-outs go similarly, and my heart quickens at the thought of the interviews. My interview was tense, at least to me, as he turned the skill evaluation paper toward me. My clammy hands grip the side of the chair underneath me — the next few moments feel like an eternity. My eyes scan the document and to my relief, I see: 

Dribbling: 19/20

Shooting: 17/20

Defense: 20/20

Passing: 18/20

“Congratulations on making the team Louisa, I’m looking forward to our year together,” my coach states. I left the school feeling the exact opposite of the year prior — ecstatic.

A few months later, the season is coming to a close. I continued to progress as a basketball player, along with my non-dominant skills. My team won the end-of-year tournament with my contribution. When I take a step back and analyze this experience, I recognize that it made me work to become a better basketball player; and if I didn’t have that obstacle, I wouldn’t have learned the process of perseverance. Keeping a positive attitude in mind during this was important; if I didn’t have one, I could’ve just given up and decided that one moment would end my basketball career. Plus, now I know that if an obstacle arises and I put all my effort into it, I can overcome it and use it to my advantage if I look on the bright side.