“Bird, get out there!”
Over the boards I hopped, and everything came into focus. With that familiar breeze on my face and the sound of skates carving, my adrenaline was pumping. BAM.
“Are you okay?!”
“No she’s not okay!”
It was true. I wasn’t okay.
Coach said, “If you stop the game for an injury – you better get carried off in a stretcher.”
Dammit. I had to get up. Holding my shoulder, I skated to the bench.
I sat on the bench…waiting. The assistant coach came to my side troubled with my condition, but the head coach didn’t seem too concerned – I mean I got up, right? It doesn’t hurt that bad. I refused to let myself believe the worst. Finally, the trainer came. After the period was over and some excruciatingly painful pushes and squeezes, he told me what I knew, but was dreading to hear: “Your collarbone is broken.”
S***.
All those months dedicated to practicing. Training. Every single day spent on the ice. Hours of running, skating, film. Pointless. The game before playoffs too – of course. Watching my team get ready for the highly anticipated playoffs was an exceptionally frustrating moment in my life. Despite my disappointment, I continued to show my dedication to the team. Like clockwork, at 3:00 pm I would hop on a stationary bike, while my team took the ice. I wouldn’t wish the injury on anybody, but I couldn’t help but feel a ping of jealousy as I watched my teammates. When the rivalry game came, I took my new, unfamiliar spot next to the coaches and watched my team lose by two. Just like that, the season was over. I couldn’t do anything about it.
Three months without hockey was more painful to me than the injury itself. But when my junior season started, I couldn’t wait to “strap ‘em up”. This would be my season.
“Bird, get out there!” And finally, once again, over the boards I hopped.